Page 177 of Marrying the Savage

His hand shoots out and grabs my wrist.

I react immediately. I twist the way one of my self-defense instructors taught me years ago, turning toward his thumb, breaking the grip before he expects it. His eyes flash with surprise, then anger.

I step back. “Touch me again,” I say, “and you’ll regret it.”

He smiles. Then he moves too fast.

One second he’s in front of me. The next, his arm is around my throat from behind, hard and tight, cutting off my breath before I can scream.

Panic hits instantly. I claw at his forearm, digging my nails into skin. He drags me backward, away from the bar, using his body to block mine from view. The music is loud enough that the first few seconds vanish into the room.

No. Not again.

I slam my heel down on his foot. He grunts but doesn’t let go. I try to drop my weight, but he adjusts, stronger than he looks, pulling me into the narrow gap beside the bar where the lights don’t reach properly.

My lungs start to burn. I can’t breathe. The edges of the room blur.

I see Rafi shove the man in front of him aside, finally noticing.

Too far. Too late.

The arm around my throat tightens.

“Stop fighting,” the blond man says against my ear.

I try to answer, but nothing comes out. My hands claw at him. My body jerks. My vision spots and there’s only one thing I can think—I’m going to die now.

26

DAMIR

The man has his hand on my wife.

She’s near the side of the bar, trapped between a man and the wall, one hand braced against his chest as if she has already tried to push him off. His hand is on her arm. His body is too close. Her face is pale, her eyes wide, and for one second I think she’s only frightened because a stranger has cornered her.

The room begins to quiet as I cross it. Men move aside before I reach them. Some know who I am. Some only understand from the way Arman’s security shifts, from the way Mikhail comes in behind me, from the way Nikolai has already taken the front exit without saying a word.

The man sees me when I’m halfway across the floor.

His face changes at once. He releases Sofia, pushing her away like that will make the last ten seconds disappear. She stumbles forward, catches herself on the edge of the bar, and turns toward me with wide eyes and a flushed face.

Her breathing is wrong. Fast. Shallow. She opens her mouth, but nothing comes out.

I reach her first and catch her by the waist before she can take another unsteady step. “Sofia.”

“I’m fine,” she says immediately. Her voice is rough.

I look at her face, then down at the hand she has pressed flat against the bar to keep herself steady. Her fingers are shaking. She pulls them into a fist when she realizes I have seen.

I turn to the man.

He backs up another step, hands raised. “I didn’t know who she was.”

I hit him in the mouth. He drops against the bar, catches himself, then tries to swing because some men are stupid enough to mistake survival panic for courage. I step inside the punch and drive my fist into his stomach hard enough that he folds over, coughing. Before he can fall, I grab the back of his collar and slam his face down onto the bar.

Glass breaks under his cheek. Someone screams behind me.

I hear Sofia say my name, but it’s quiet and strained, not enough to stop me.