“The fuck are you doing, man?”
The guy’s scared. Shaking. Bleeding all over his expensive suit.
“You don’t fucking touch her, you get that?”
“Stop it, man!” He whines, arms thrown up to protect his face. “Stop. Please.Please.”
I pause, blinking, staring down at him, still seeing only a man who’d hurt a woman. And not just any woman. Katarina Esteban.
“She’smine,” I mutter into his face.
On one plane is his breath—onions and garlic that I cooked—the chilly air, loose gravel beneath my boots. The instant, sharp pain in my knuckles. On another, deeper level is hunger and hate, the need to hurt. To punish. It doesn’t feel separate from me at all. It’s not emotional, it’s essential. Basic and true. A part of my being. Like someone’s cracked my bones and it’s seeping up and out of my marrow like lava that’s laid dormant all these years. Violence, as deeply woven into my being as blue eyes and an affinity for tough, soulful, thick-thighed women.
I’ll fuck him up. Punish him. Teach him.
One fist in his shirt, the other cocked, knowing this kind of man will never stop hurting women. A third punch to that liver and he’s down, in terrible pain, bruised and fucked for days.
A hand clasps my fist, tight. “Jake.”
Her voice, Christ, it’s a key turning. A lock open, tightly woven fibers loosen inside me.
“Jake. Leave it. Stop. Please.”
“I’m calling the fucking cops,” the guy says, only to realize, when I shove him back against the car that maybe talking’s not the best move here.
“It’s not worth it, Jake. Leave him. Let it go. You don’t want to get arrested.” That last sentence sinks in.
Right. Right.
Prison.
I’ve been here before.
I shake the bloodlust from my head, squint down at the guy’s overgrown frat cut, not quite balding at the crown, the sweat mixing with the blood on his upper lip, and his expression…pure fear. Deer in the goddamn headlights, rabbit caught in a trap terror. Because of me.
With a whoosh all the rage floods out.
“Take off,” I say, forcing my limbs to loosen when what they really crave is to give him one final shove. Something that’ll hurt. Something he’ll remember.
Punishment.
Fuck. Fuck, no. That’s not who I am. Some avenger or vigilante justice warrior like Frank.
This guy’s weak. Look at him. Shame swirls sick and heavy inside me, alongside that hefty dose of anger and contempt.
The second I give him space, he scrambles into his car and locks the doors, starts the engine and takes off, spitting gravel.
“Can’t wait to read his yelp review.” Kit slides up beside me, watching the taillights disappear.
“He’d better leave it alone.” Distance hasn’t rid me of the adrenaline yet. Not for a single second. “If he knows what’s good for him.”
From the restaurant, loud voices ring out as the front door opens and a handful of curious customers come out. At least one of them’s got their phone up, filming. They seem worlds away from what just happened out here. From what’s still happening. But shame at the idea that my violent outburst got caught on camera edges in.
“You okay?”
I turn and let myself look at Kit. Her beauty hits me the way it always does, only more. So much fucking more with adrenaline making everything bigger, deeper, brighter. More alive.
There’s a red mark at her throat and, right away, the shame’s replaced with pure hatred. Men who hurt women and children deserve nothing but hell. It’s that simple. The man’s life isn’t worth a thing in my eyes.
