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He didn’t get a chance.
My boot landed a kick so hard to his gut that he went flying, crashing into the wall before crumbling to the floor with a groan.
I’d never really understood the phrase “saw red” before. I’d been angry, sure. I’d been pissed, even, when someone came for what was mine, when someone betrayed me or the club.
But that was a sort of cold, calculated anger.
This?
This was completely different.
It was like there was a haze over my eyes, over my mind, red-tinged around the edges, as something molten moved through my system, burning me up from the inside out.
“Hey! Hey!” Chet yelled, holding up his hands. “I just needed information!” he yelled.
As if that was any kind of excuse.
As if there was ever a good reason to put your hands on a woman.
Any woman.
But he was going to wish he’d never put his hands on mine.
I mean, he would only regret it for twenty minutes or so. Before he wasn’t fucking breathing anymore.
“Shouldn’t have brought her into your shit,” I said, tone dead, as I reached down, grabbing the front of his shirt, and yanking him up by it, only to knock his head back into the wall with a satisfying crack.
Then my hand was raising, my fist colliding.
Once.
Twice.
Three times.
More.
So many more.
So many that I couldn’t really make out a face when some of the haze cleared from my vision.
My arm fell to my side, heavy and aching.
But, somehow, despite the damage, the bastard was still breathing.
I was done, though.
Most of the anger purged, I just wanted to get back to Nyx, to get her help, to tell her it was going to be okay, that I would do whatever it takes to make sure nothing ever happened to her again.
So I yanked him back, then slammed him hard enough against the wall that there was no way he could survive it.
I dropped him, watching his body fall, lifeless, to the ground, curled in a grotesque position.
I’d have to come back and deal with him.
Later.
Once Nyx was safe and healing and full of some pain medicine.
