“You think you get to fucking breathe the same air as her?”
Miles tries to swing—reflex, desperation—but he misses, and Dax catches the motion with terrifying ease. He twists, turns, and drives him into the floor.
The sound of impact is sickening.
A chair topples. A table cracks. Someone screams.
Security shouts—but they hesitate.
No one wants to get near him when he looks like this.
When the only thing tethering him to the earth is the blood on his knuckles.
He straddles Miles, fist raised high, ready to end something.
“You don’t fucking touch her?—”
“DAX!”
My voice slices through the din like a blade.
His fist freezes mid-air.
Fingers curled.
Chest heaving.
Jaw clenched like he’s holding back a scream.
He doesn’t look at me at first.
His eyes are still locked on Miles, wild, murderous, shaking with ghosts I’ve never seen this close.
But then?—
Slowly—
He lifts his head.
And those eyes—those eyes that once looked at me like I was something soft, something safe, something worth wanting—are now feral. Lost. Haunted.
Our gazes collide.
And it’s over.
He drops his fist.
Lets Miles go like he’s suddenly realised what he’s done.
Stumbles back—one step, then another.
Blood streaks his knuckles.
His chest rises and falls like he’s trying to breathe through smoke.
Everyone is staring.
Every single pair of eyes in the Crimson Room.
