I almost laughed. Men like Jordan didn't change, they just got better at hiding what they were. I'd learned that lesson the hard way, along with a few bruises that had taken weeks to fade.
"You miss the control," I said, meeting his eyes directly. "That's what you miss. But I'm not that girl anymore. Now leave me alone."
His expression shifted, that dangerous edge I remembered too well creeping into his features. Despite all the growing I'd done in the years since him, I still felt that spark of fear trying to ignite. But I was not about to give him that control again either.
"What's that supposed to mean?"
"It means I'm done with assholes who think they own me." I grabbed my purse, ready to leave. This night had officiallybecome a disaster, and I wasn't sticking around for the encore. "Goodbye, Jordan. I hope I never see you again."
I moved to stand, but his hand shot out, fingers wrapping around my wrist. Tight. Too tight. The old me flashed to the surface, fear spiking hard, but I quelled it.
"Don't walk away from me," he growled, the nice-guy act dissolving like sugar in acid. "We're not finished."
"Let go of me, now," I hissed, rage slicing through me.
"Not until you listen?—"
My palm connected with his cheek before he even finished. The slap echoed over the music, sharp and satisfying. Several nearby patrons turned to look, their conversations dying mid-sentence.
Good. This bastard deserved to be seen for the piece of shit he was.
Jordan's face went red, his grip on my wrist tightening until I felt bones grinding together. "You bitch."
He yanked, trying to pull me off the stool, toward the exit. I dug my heels in and tried to wrench free, but he'd always been stronger. Panic fluttered in my chest, the old fear trying to claw its way back up.
If the Donatis were here?—
Then a tattooed hand landed on Jordan's shoulder.
"She said let go." The striking, deep voice tinged with an English accent had my stomach flip-flopping pathetically.
The voice was low, calm. Dangerous in its composure. A tone I'd once melted for.
Jordan's grip loosened just enough for me to pull free as he turned to face whoever had interrupted.
I looked up and felt my stomach drop.
Eric Hale.
Four years. It had been four years since I'd last seen him, and apparently time had only made him more infuriatinglyattractive. Dark hair, darker eyes, the kind of build that suggested he knew his way around a gym without being obnoxious about it. He wore a simple black shirt and jeans, but somehow made it look deliberate. And those tattoos that had always drawn my attention were visible, wrapping up his arms and his neck.
How does a girl run into two exes on a date night?
He didn't look at me. His attention stayed fixed on Jordan.
"Who the fuck are you?" Jordan demanded, puffing up like a rooster in a henhouse. He looked so goddamn stupid.
"Someone who's giving you a chance to walk away." Eric's tone didn't change, still that unsettling calm that made my knees weak. "Take it."
"This is between me and my girl?—"
"I'm not your girl," I snapped, rubbing my wrist where red marks were already forming. I should've punched him instead of slapping. Givenhima black eye for once. God knows he'd given me one the day I left him after the abuse had only gotten worse.
Jordan, the bright bulb that he was, ignored me, squaring up to Eric instead like I had ceased to exist in that moment despite me being the entire reason for this. "Mind your own business, asshole."
"I'm making it my business."
For a second, I thought Jordan might actually be smart enough to back down. The bar had gone quiet with everyone watching. Even the music seemed to have lowered, though that might've been my imagination.
