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I freeze, fear seizing me as he pulls harshly on my arm. But then his crushing weight is suddenly torn off of me. A violent thud sounding at my back, easily heard even over the heavy drumming music.
I spin around, a gasp caught in my constricting throat. Wrist pulsing with pain, my fingers curl into fists, nails carving into my clammy palms as I stare at the back of a huge man, his forearm barred across Chris' throat.
Rippling muscles flex beneath light brown skin, a huge darkly inked back piece covers every inch of it with jagged thorns, cracked skulls, broken pieces of bone, all pulled together with shadowed serpents. It's a macabrely detailed design trailing up over his shoulders, down the tops of his arms. It makes my fingers clench for an entirely different reason.
Black sweats sit low on his hips, sculpted to his firm arse, the stretchy fabric clinging to his thick thighs like they're painted rather than pulled on.
He looks like he exudes no energy, easily pinning a dark haired Chris in place by his pale neck against the wall, Chris' face so red it almost has a purple hue to it.
My head cocks of its own accord. Fascination replacing my fear, as I stare at the back of my saviour.
His dark hair is shaved almost to the scalp on the sides, the top of it long and plaited in intricate braids, all of them tied back, secured with a thin band at the crown of his head. He's a masterpiece. The way he's decorated, the bulge to his biceps, the straining of tendons and vining green-blue veins ridged beneath his skin.
All of this huge guy is tense. Rigid enough to be cut from marble.
His arm flexes, pressing harder, and I think he's cutting off Chris' air supply completely now. Pale fingers clawing desperately into the tattooed forearm keeping him hostage. But the guy doesn't even seem to break a sweat, doesn't flinch, doesn't appear to be doing anything, very much like a statue, except for the heavy rise and fall of his back. Sharp, uneven breaths ripping through his chest.
And just when I think the man who touched me is about to pass out, his dark eyes rolling back, another guy approaches from the main room, and it's the first time I realise, other thanthe speakers, everything is silent. Everyone is watching, and it's as though the room is holding its collective breath.
The newcomer, tall, broad, of a similar stature, light skin, light eyes, black hair. He doesn't touch the beautiful tattooed statue, instead, he leaves space between them, not crowding him.
“King, man,” the newcomer says, something like charm slipping through his teeth. And very quietly he murmurs, “You need to put him down.”
And just like that, my saviour,King, releases his hold, taking a single step back, and Chris drops to the floor with a pained grunt and loud thud. Hacking coughs tearing from his red fingerprinted throat. But he doesn't say anything, doesn't glare, and the black haired, blue eyed placater drops down into a crouch, grabbing Chris' nape and whispering something I can't hear. I imagine it's something sinister though, because with a quick squeeze of Chris' neck, the new guy hops back up to his feet, leaving Chris discarded on the floor.
Cupping his hands around his mouth, head dropping back, the newcomer howls like a wolf, yelling out, “Let's get fucking wasted, bitches!”
The room erupts into cheering chaos, but I hear nothing over my own thudding heart, banging away in my buzzing eardrums, staring at the back of my silent hero.
I never thought I'd need rescuing. I don't think I ever did before, but then, after everything that's happened over the last year, I don't really know who the fuck I am anymore.
Not since them.
That.
Him.
And then the inked guy turns to face me.
Piercing grey eyes pin me in place, his right eyebrow is pierced, a silver hoop through the arch glinting as his thick, perfectly shaped brows draw together slightly.
King takes a step forward, closer, heat rolling off of his half naked body, he stalks closer all whilst holding my eye. It makes me itch, wanting to drop my gaze, stare at my feet and then silently slip out of the back door, run back to my dorm and hide beneath my sheets.
But I can't bring myself to do it.
I am ensnared, caught, trapped, hooked, and strangely, I don't feel even remotely suffocated as he moves into the vacant space before me. I arch my neck, just a little, I'm six-foot and he's taller by a few inches, and I could just as easily roll my eyes up onto him, but I feel submissive. Instantly. Like I should be rolling over and showing him my belly or something that is the human, and less embarrassing, equivalent.
My mouth is dry, the heat of his body makes it feel as though he's touching me, and I don't hate it. Even though I'm not high right now and that's usually the only time I can stand touch and not flinch like I've been electrocuted.
His eyes narrow as he keeps his chin tipped up, stares down the slope of his nose at me, the straight line of it rolling effortlessly into an angular square tip, his nostrils flare at my assessment of him. And still, he says nothing.
A nervous tremor runs through me, and it only intensifies the longer he stares. It feels like there's no one else around, the way he holds my gaze. I want to look away, a flare of heat making my belly jump and swoop.
I swallow then, nerves choking me from the inside, but I manage to lick my lips, an action he studies like a predator would his prey.
“Thank you,” I half whisper, and the words are sucked in through his nose as he breathes me in deep.
His neck finally allowing his head to drop forward, eating up the sliver of space that was separating our faces. His lips almost brush mine, and it occurs to me suddenly that I really wouldn't mind him touching me, even now, without the drugs I use to get me through social situations like this.
