“Get the fuck off me, you freak,” he snarls.
Freak. That word. Freak. Freak.Freak.
I lean in close, just inches away, but he still has to tilt his head back to look up because I’m taller.
My forearm stays locked across his throat, with just enough pressure to remind him how easily I could snap his neck.
“Put your hands on her again,” I say slowly, looking down at him. “I’ll break every bone in your fucking hand. Then I’ll do the same to the other. After that, I’ll move on to your knees, elbows, ribs—until you’re crying and can’t stand. And I won’t stop until you’re begging.”
His lips peel back in a sneer as he shoves again, harder this time, twisting his hips so his shoulder drives into my chest.
I lean back slightly, but I’m not someone to be underestimated.
Just because I’m quiet doesn’t mean I won’t fuck youup, especially noticing how Layla flinches around him—myLayla.
He uses the space to wrench his arm free and shove his forearm under my chin, trying to reverse the hold.
I catch his wrist mid-motion, twisting it down and out, slamming my free hand into the center of his chest.
He hits the wall a third time, his breath exploding from him again, but he doesn’t fold.
He snarls and swings.
I duck his wild hook.
Coming up inside his guard, I plant my palm on his throat, not a punch, just a hard shove that pins his head back against the paneling.
“Listen to me very carefully,” I growl, my voice dropping so low it barely cuts through the muffled music leaking in from the bar. “You don’t own her. You don’t get to mark her. You don’t get to drag her anywhere like she’s your fucking property.”
His eyes are wild, pupils blown wide with rage and adrenaline.
He spits the words through clenched teeth. “You think I hit her? You’re imagining things. Besides, she’s my fiancé, asshole.” He wriggles in my hold. “Not yours. Never yours. You’re just the bar trash she fucks around with when she’s bored.”
My vision tunnels as I slam my forearm harder across his throat.
His face flushes a dark red; veins stand out at his temples.
“You think those bruises make you a man?” I ask, my voice shaking with the effort to keep it quiet. “You think putting your hands on her when she’s scared makes you strong? You’re a fucking coward.”
He tries to knee me, a pathetic attempt.
I shift my hip, take the blow on the outside of my thigh rather than the groin, and drive my knee into his inner thigh, hard enough to make his leg buckle.
He grunts, sags for a second.
I don’t let up.
“You touch her again,” I say, leaning in so close our foreheads almost touch. “And I will end you, slowly. I will make sure every time you look in the mirror, you remember exactly who did this to you. Nod if you fucking understand.”
“I didn’t fucking touch her, you fucking loser.” He spits out, struggling. “And every time I look in the mirror? Look at you, you’re disgusting.”
I push him against the wall harder, cutting off his oxygen.
His hands claw at my arm, trying to pry my forearm from his throat.
I don’t move as I keep pushing, until I finally let him go.
He slides down the wall a few inches before catching himself, coughing violently, bracing his hand on his knee, as the other clutches his throat.
