He hasn’t lived inside the orbit of Dax Kingston long enough to recognise the warning signs—the tension that rolls in like a storm surge, the shift in air pressure, the way the room’s pulse stutters when he steps into a space.
I don’t look.
I don’t have to.
Because Dax’s voice reaches me first—sharp, lethal, controlled in the way knives are controlled when someone is deciding where to cut.
“Get your fucking hand off her.”
And Jesus Christ—yeah. Somewhere between my last breath and the next, Miles has let his palm settle lightly on my thigh. Harmless. Human. Friendly.
But not to Dax.
Never to Dax.
Friendly.
Reassuring.
Suicidal.
I finally turn, and the world tightens.
Dax stands less than two feet away, a black shirt stretched over tense muscle, fists clenched, shoulders squared with the kind of stillness you only see in predators moments before they strike. His jaw could cut glass. His eyes—those frost-bitten, too-blue eyes—are locked on Miles like he’s already imagining ripping something out of him.
He’s not breathing hard.
But he’s seething.
Control and violence in the same breath.
And Miles?
Still smiling, still leaning back like he doesn’t realise a grenade has been thrown at his feet and the pin is already gone.
“Oh,” Miles says lightly, dropping his hand from my thigh, still playing it casual. “Didn’t realise she was taken.”
“I didn’t say she was.”
Dax’s voice is so low it vibrates.
“I said get your hand off her.”
Miles raises his brows, unfazed. “Same difference, no?”
“No.”
Dax takes one slow, devastating step closer.
“If she were mine, you’d already be bleeding.”
Silence drops thick and sharp.
A few men nearby shift uncomfortably. A dancer on the side stage falters in her spin. The music seems to dull around the edges as if even the speakers are afraid they’ll trigger him.
Miles exhales, amused, turning back to me with a crooked smirk.
“You’ve got yourself a live wire, sweetheart.”
