“Hope you got him tested before you said your nuptials?” I remain silent. “Hey, red, I’m talking to you. You mute or stupid?”
Every word lands like a slap. My stomach flips, the champagne suddenly bitter on my tongue. The table goes quiet—Logan’s smirk fading, Chace and Sam both going taut as wire.
Trey doesn’t move at first. Just breathes—slow, too slow. His eyes are still on me, burning through the haze, and I canseeit—the moment the fire in him turns cold.
He swallows, jaw working once before he says, voice low, dangerous, almost calm,
“Move, Dove.”
“Trey…” I start, but he’s already moving, gentle but firm, his hands guiding me off his lap, untangling us like I’m glass. His touch lingers a second too long on my thigh before he pulls back completely, placing me on the booth seat beside Mac.
The absence of his warmth is instant, unbearable. He stands—slowly, deliberately. Shoulders squaring, his expression unreadable under the strobing lights. That easy smirk he wears like armor is gone.
Logan shifts, voice tight.
“Trey—”
But Trey’s already stepping forward, the crowd seeming to peel away from him like they canfeelthe change in the air.
The man laughs, takes another swig from his bottle, and adds,
“What’s the matter, Baker? Don’t like being reminded who you were before the world thought you mattered?”
I see it—the faint twitch in Trey’s jaw, the storm barely contained.
He’s not going to let this go.
Mac’shand finds mine beneath the table, her fingers tightening as the air thickens around us. Across from us, Logan stands—eyes sharp, body coiled tight, like he’s ready to spring. Trey doesn’t move at first. Just stares at the man still smirking by the table, his voice cutting through the thrum of music—cold, lethal.
“Apologize.”
The guy laughs, shaking his head, taking another slow sip of beer.
“Or what?”
The security team that came with us doesn’t so much as flinch. They stay posted against the wall, arms folded, like they’ve seen this movie before and know exactly how it ends.
Then—before I can even blink—the man’s face isslammeddown against the table with a crack so sharp it makes me jolt. Glasses topple, champagne spilling across the surface. Trey has him pinned, his hand fisted in the back of his shirt, the other twisting his arm up behind him at an impossible angle.
“Get the fuck off me!” the guy snarls, struggling, but Trey doesn’t give an inch.
“Apologize,” Trey says again, voice low, measured, terrifying in its calm. “To. My. Wife.”
“Fuck—” the man grits out, his face pressed to the wood, his voice breaking on a groan as Trey applies more pressure. “I’m real sorry, sweetheart. Hope you know who you married.” He laughs—cruel, rasping—and that’s when Trey looks at me. Just a flicker of green meeting my gaze, a storm behind it. Trey releases him with a shove, sending him sprawling against thetable, glasses skittering to the floor. The guy spins, fury blazing, and swings. Trey dodges. Effortless. Calculated.
A slow grin spreads across Trey’s face.
“That’s embarrassing. Try again.”
The man lunges, swinging wild. Trey sidesteps, easy, almost lazy.
Logan exhales a quiet laugh, sitting back down and draping an arm over the booth.
“Come on,” Trey drawls. “Do you want to hit me or make out?
“Fuck you!” the man spits, throwing another punch. Trey shifts just enough to avoid it, his expression cooling.
“Okay,” he says, flatly. “Bored now. Enough people here are recording to know it’s self-defense.”
