Before I can reply—before I can defuse it or inflame it or run or stay—Dax moves.
It’s so fast the air doesn’t catch up.
So fast the sound comes after the motion.
Before I speak.
Before I breathe.
Before I blink.
Dax strikes.
Not a shove.
Not a warning.
A fucking punch.
His fist connects with Miles’ jaw and sends the man flying backwards like he’s been hit by a truck moving at full speed. The bar stool skids across the floor. Glass shatters. A drink explodes in a spray of amber across the tiles.
For one suspended heartbeat, the entire club goes silent.
Then chaos detonates.
People shove chairs back. A bartender ducks behind the counter. Cherry shrieks mid-spin and clutches the pole. A man swears and pulls his girlfriend behind him. The whole Crimson Room seems to tilt on its axis.
But Dax doesn’t care.
He never cares.
He stalks toward Miles—who’s dazed, trying to push himself up, one hand to his bleeding lip, eyes blinking like he’s just seen God and is deeply unimpressed by the sight.
“You’re fucking insane,” Miles spits through the blood.
Dax grabs him by the collar and hauls him up with one brutal, fluid movement.
“You touched her.”
“It was nothing, man—I didn’t know she was?—”
“Don’t. Lie.”
Dax slams him into the wall so hard the framed neon sign rattles and the crack of impact punches the breath out of the room.
My heart stutters.
Everything in me pulls forward.
But I freeze.
Because one look at Dax’s face tells me this isn’t a bar fight.
This is a man unraveling.
“You think you can smile at her?” Dax snarls, breath hot with rage. “Put your fucking hands on her? Look at her like she’s yours?”
He slams him again.
