Page 68 of Cruel Demands

Taylor gave him that phrase. The knowledge drops like lead into my stomach.

His smile appears before he can stop it. I watch him decide what kind of story this is. The important man warning him away. The jealous boss. The powerful older suitor. Perhaps he thinks it will become something funny to tell his friends tomorrow. He is wrong.

“Come to tell me to stay away from Taylor?” he asks.

Her name in his mouth removes the last clean thought from my head.

“You asked for her number.”

He lifts both hands slightly. “She gave it to me.”

I step closer. His smile falters.

“That is not what I said.”

“No. I mean, yes, I asked. But she gave it to me. No problem.” No problem. There are phrases men use when they haven’t yet understood there is a problem. They are usually the last honest thing they say before fear teaches them better language.

“You put your hands on a woman you met five minutes earlier.”

His brows pull together. “She agreed to dance with me.” The answer is reasonable. That makes it worse. His eyes move past me toward the main street, looking for witnesses. Friends. Options. He sees none and looks back at me. “It sounds like you’re more worried about me disrespecting you than disrespecting her.”

“I am not worried.” I step forward again. He steps back, and his shoulders meet the brick wall. The color begins to leave his face. I bring my mouth close to his ear. “You should be.”

He closes his eyes and lifts his hands toward his face.

“You are going to hide?” I ask. “You do not want to try to hit me first?”

He lowers his hands slowly, apparently deciding that because I’m still talking, I must be calming down. “I didn’t know she was with you.”

I drive my fist into the soft place beneath his ribs. He folds into me with a broken cry, clutching the front of my coat because there is nothing else to hold. His breath disappears. He coughs against my shoulder, trying to force air back into his lungs. I let him hold on for a moment. I even put one hand against the back of his head and shush him. “You’re all right,” I tell him.

Then I grip his careless hair and pull his head back until he has to look at me. His eyes are wide, confusion carved into his face, searching mine for something human he will not find. “I wouldn’t have—” he whispers.

“What?” I ask. “Touched her? Or touched her in front of me?”

“I wouldn’t have touched her at all if I’d known.”

“Known what?”

He swallows. “That you were with her.”

“Wrong.” I drive my knee into his stomach hard enough to lift him against the wall. He drops immediately, falling onto his hands and knees. He retches onto the wet pavement, coughing between breaths. I crouch beside him. “That she is moya,” I growl near his ear. Mine. The words come out before I can stop them.

He nods without looking at me. That should be enough, but I see his hand on her waist again. I grab him by the collar, pull him partly upright, and hit him once across the face. His head snaps sideways, and he drops back to his knees with blood pouring from his nose.

I reach into his coat and take his phone. “Look at it.” When he lifts his face, I hold the screen in front of him. The phone attempts to recognize him. It fails. Blood covers his mouth. One eye is already beginning to swell. The device gives a small, indifferent vibration and asks for his passcode instead.

I stare at the screen. For one second, the absurdity of what I’m doing nearly reaches me. I am standing in a freezing side street holding a stranger’s phone, trying to erase a number Taylor gave him willingly.

Then the anger returns. I throw the phone against the wall. The screen bursts, and the casing separates when it hits the pavement.

“You will not call her.”

“I won’t.”

“You will not message her. You will not approach her. If she calls you, you will not answer.”

“I won’t.” His voice breaks around the words.