It’s just me and Suit Guy in this bar right now, and he’s going to leave too afraid to touch another woman without herconsent ever again—maybe with a few less teeth, to top it all off.
He makes another pained sound, so I shake him a bit to make sure the message is sinking in.
Stay awake, you little prick.
“Shame that you complained about some vodka on your shirt, huh?” I laugh, humourlessly. “All of this blood is going to be a bit harder to get out.”
My hands are finally torn from his clothing. It’s because I let them be. I know I’m teetering on the line here. The way he’s looking through me instead ofatme is a clear sign that he’s barely conscious. I’m going to hurt him beyond what he can come back from. Hell, I might have already done that. I need someone to physically remove me from this situation before I lose everything.
Mark my words, I’d do it. I don’t like that I would, but my brain doesn’t work like a normal brain, and if I let go of myself completely—I’ll go too far. I’d feel terribly guilty after. Obviously, I’m not a psychopath. But in that actual moment, I’d want it more than anything.
“Calm the fuckdown!” It’s Boston, growling in my ear. He yanks me back toward our booth, further away from the scene. I get the immediate whiff of bubblegum, and it surprisingly calms me enough to take a breath.
Callum Saltzman is between us, one hand outstretched toward me and the other toward Suit Guy, like I’m a fucking velociraptor and he’s trying to prevent me from biting the heads off all the humans in the vicinity.
I blink, the bar slowly coming back into focus. The lights and the sounds trickle back in, like when your ears pop in the middle of a road trip, and only then do you realize how quiet everything really was. People start appearing like mirages out of thin air.
The guy’s friends are keeping him upright, but he’s sagging against them like he can’t hold his own weight. Not a good sign. There is a woman in front of him with dark hair, hands clamped on his cheeks, inspecting his face and his injuries.
I smirk at him over her shoulder, loving the sheer terror all over his face when sees me.
Saltzy drops his hands, shaking his head over and over. He’s talking to one of the friends—cool, calm, and collected. He’s trying to mediate this. Trying to stop a story before it starts. It’s too late, though. Thiswillget out. There is a bar full of witnesses and one little prick that needs far too much validation to own his mistakes like a man.
My heart is still racing, hands still itching for a fight.
“Aw, let him go!” I taunt his friends. Saltzy whirls around and glares at me. “He likes putting his hands where they don’t belong!”
“You’re a fucking liability,” Boston grumbles. His big arms are wrapped completely around my chest now. He smacks me gently on the collarbone and drops his voice. “But that dickhead might have deserved that.”
Yeah. Understatement of the year.
All he had to do was walk away. All he had to do was not touch her.
Why did he have to do that?
Oh, shit.Red.
I blink, glancing around the bar. I completely forget about Suit Guy for a second and worry about the woman he risked dying over.
Where is she?
Fuck. I hope I didn’t hurt her. I scan the area, my heart picking up for an entirely new reason now. One that is much worse, in my opinion. Collateral is always my nightmare.
When I swing, I tend to lose track of my surroundings. Iblock out everything but my fists, my anger, and the unlucky person on the receiving end of them both. People have gotten hurt in the crossfire before. Shit happens that I don’t intend for, like shattering a glass and cutting someone’s foot, or pushing someone when I lunge for someone else. It’s why I know there is something wrong with me.That’sthe reason.
I don’t see her anywhere, but I do see a pair of blue eyes storming through the crowd. Locked on me.
Significantly less pretty than the brown ones I was just smiling down at.
Shit.
Elliot Nile, part owner ofIcebox, marches right up to me. He’s a tiny little thing. A hipster who doesn’t need glasses, but wears them because he thinks they make him look smarter. Good dude. Mellow. Gets me out of a bind from time to time in situations exactly like this, so I excuse the stupid glasses.
He pushes himself right into my space. He might be the only dude capable of acting like he’s never been intimidated by me, and he’s the size of an ant.
“How many times do I have to tell you not to do this shit in my bar?”
This might be the eighth hundred and twenty-seventhtime, so I’m not entirely sure when it’s supposed to sink in.
