“Not interested, Kyle.” I take a half-step back without meaning to, my shoulder brushing the cool glass of a window behind me.
It’s instinct, space-making. The second it happens, irritation flares hot in my chest.
“Don’t be a bitch,” the first says, shifting to put his arm on the glass by my head, as if we’re sharing a secret. “We’re being nice to you.”
“Yeah, we want to welcome you to Hollow Beach. You know, the proper way.” His smile is all condescending bullshit, like he’s doing me a favor.
Something about all their drunk, smug faces lights a dangerous fire inside of me.
I tip my chin up, letting my gaze trail over all three of them. “How about you all go fuck yourselves?”
The third guy lunges for me, grabbing my arm and getting in my face. “Now that’s not very nice.”
The glass behind me vibrates with a knock. My shoulders jerk at the sound—tap, tap, tap—precise as a metronome. The men's faces remain unbothered. One swivels his head, beer sloshing over his knuckles, and snorts at whatever is on the other side of the window.
“Oh shit,” he says, lifting his beer toward the glass like he’s greeting a buddy. “Is that a new gun or something? I don’t get it, man, but congrats.”
The other two follow his gaze, drunk enough to think everything is amusing.
But not me. I slide to the left, craning my neck to see where the hell Cruz is. I hate to play the Calloway card, because I’m not a fucking damsel in distress type, but I’m close to laying all my cards down just to get these assholes away from me.
The first guy turns back to me, too close now. “C’mon, sweetheart.” His hand reaches out, fingers brushing the edge of my towel at my hip like he’s testing what he’s allowed to touch. “Let’s leave Rafe to his new toy and go somewhere more private.”
My skin goes cold, and I catch his wrist. I fling it off of me and paste on my most lethal smile. “Get fucked. And don’t ever touch me again.”
A blur of movement—the guy's sneering face jerks backward, his beer arcing through the air in slow motion, amber droplets catching the party lights. His shirt collar strains against his throat as knuckles whiten around the fabric, dragging him away from me with enough force that his feet stumble to keep up.
Bishop Calloway stands there like some kind of avenging angel.
His face is carved from ice, eyes flat and merciless. He doesn’t say a word as he twists the fabric in his fist.
I take it back. He’s afallenangel.
The man sputters, twisting. “What the fuck?—”
Bishop’s fist connects with his jaw. A clean hit, fast and controlled.
The sound is ugly—bone on bone, a sharp crack that cuts through the music for one brief heartbeat. The guy drops like someone unplugged him, landing on his ass with his hands scrambling uselessly.
A fissure of dark excitement splits through me, heady and immediate.
And I hate how relieved I feel.
Bishop leans toward him, hissing, “She said no, motherfucker. You know the fucking rules. You gonna disrespect me in my own house?”
The two other guys lunge toward Bishop, outrage twisting their expressions.
“Bishop,” I yell, stepping forward without thinking.
“Bellamy.” He says my name in exasperation, leveling me with a look I shouldn’t find so fucking alluring.
Then Bishop pivots. His fist connects with a nose, and the second guy staggers backward, blood spraying from his nose in a fine mist that catches the patio lights. The third swings wild, knuckles grazing Bishop's cheek. Bishop doesn't flinch. Just grabs the guy's shirt, twists, and drives him down onto one knee with methodical precision. When he straightens, all three lie sprawled on the concrete, red pooling beneath chins and split lips, while Bishop stands over them, not even breathing hard.
“Holy fuck,” I whisper.
My mouth goes dry. Desire pools low in my belly, and I press my thighs together without meaning to, trying to quell the sudden, shameful flutter between them. My pulse throbs in places it shouldn't while men bleed at my feet.
“Get the fuck out of here before I change my mind about letting you leave,” Bishop rumbles. The threat hangs around their throats.
