Page 20 of Before You Fell

His body angled close enough to look protective without looking hungry and his voice dropped low enough that she has to lean in to hear it. His smile doing its best impression of harmless.

He wants her outside. Away from the noise, the band, and away from fucking me.

Fuck that.

The second I watched Marcus angle his body towards Willow, something in my chest went mean and ugly so fast it didn’t bother asking permission.

I crossed the room before I could talk myself into pretending I’m better than this. I’m not better than this. But I am still arrogant enough to put my arm around Willow as if I have any right to touch her.

As if she were mine.

But she isn’t. Not technically. Not in any way that would hold up under daylight, sober questions, or the glare she gives me when she knows I’m full of shit.

But she is mine in the fucked-up way that doesn’t have a clean word. In the way that lives in the back of my chest like a bruise I keep pressing just to check it still hurts. In the way her songs sit in my mouth every night.

I put my arm around her because I’m an asshole and Marcus is standing too fucking close. Because Willow is looking at him like he might be an exit and I have never been good at letting her walk toward doors that do not lead back to me.

She lifts my arm off her the way you move something that has become inconvenient.

“Don’t,” she says.

One word and it lands sharp enough to make my jaw lock.

“She’s busy,” I tell Marcus.

It’s simple. Possessive. A dick move wrapped in two words.

Translation: Marcus, fuck right off and find somewhere else to put your cock, because it is not going anywhere near Willow Hart tonight.

She turns back to him and something hot and vicious claws under my ribs.

She thinks lifting my arm off her means she won. Thinks one quiet “don't" is enough to make me tuck my tail, take the hint, and crawl back to the brunette still waiting on the couch with lipstick on her mouth and my name probably wet behind her teeth.

Cute. Eleven years and Willow Hart still doesn’t know what kind of dick she is dealing with.

A better man would step back. A decent man would respect the line. And a man with morals would let her walk into that hallway with Marcus and his soft voice and his noble, paltry offer of air.

It’s a shame, I have never been one of those things.

Her “don’t” doesn’t make me fold. It makes me mean. It makes me glare at Marcus and smile, with every bad thing in me showing its teeth.

“I could go for air,” she says.

For a second, the whole green room narrows. The music. The laughter. The women. Cruz at the bar. Jax running his mouth. Jett doing whatever the fuck Jet does. Damon counting money through his teeth.

All of it fades away until all I see is Willow looking at another man as if I have not made myself crystal fucking clear.

As if Marcus and his steady hands get to stand there and offer her air while I am standing right here with every ugly part of me awake and ready to bite.

“Go get your air somewhere else,” I tell him.

Willow turns her head slowly. “Phoenix.”

I keep my eyes on Marcus. “Now.”

Marcus straightens, and for one hilarious second, the fucker looks as if he might say something.

Good. I almost want him to.