He chuckles at me. "Does that feel good?"
My mind shifts to a different place. And now I see Blesk. I hear her words about mind games. This is her brother. A driver. He's not nearly as powerful as my boyfriend. Or his family. My eyes narrow on him. "You could never make me feel good!"
As laughter erupts from him, my hands flex at my sides, reminding me that they are there. In an instant my fingers meet the crevassed plane of his face and my nails dig in hard, splitting skin and drawing blood.
Growling, Erik grabs my wrists and throws me forward onto my knees. "You cunt!"
"Max!" I scream, stumbling to my feet just as Erik lunges for me. He fists my hair, my scalp burning as he drags me across the alfresco. My elbows go up to protect my face as he throws me headfirst through a glass table. Shards scatter in the air and drive into my skin. Blood drips down the length of my forearms and onto the floor. With fingers knotted in my hair, he drags me across the ground and drops down on top of me.
"Feisty little bitch. I was just going to fuck you, but now I think I'll cut that pretty little face up."
Oh God!
I gyrate beneath him, flailing my limbs and body, trying to buck him off. His weight compresses my chest, but my knee meets his groin and he keels over onto his back, grasping at his balls. Before I can get to my feet, fingers enclose my ankle, yanking me backwards. A big shard of glass in my forearm digs in deeper as I'm dragged under him.
I claw at the pavement. "Max!"
He grunts with exertion as he slams me onto my back. He rears up and drops his fist into my face, the blunt force of his knuckles blackening the world around me. I let out long, deep groans as I roll around, disorientated.
Squinting up at him, I try to focus on the blood splatter on his jagged face. Try to pull myself out of the haze that has settled around me. Try to ignore his hands. He starts to touch me. The breath on my cheeks is hot, musky and makes my head spin. He's suddenly squeezing my breasts so hard that pain shoots under my arms and around the back of my shoulders.
When I regain my sight, nasty bloodshot brown eyes scowl at me. I feel the shard in my forearm shuffle between gashed skin.
Glass is fragile. It also cuts.
I reach for it, pull it out with a long throaty cry and thrust it into the side of Erik's neck, pushing it through the soft, mushy flesh.
Those cruel eyes widen.
Instantly, blood begins to pour from the incision. I kick him off, straining for breath, and scamper on my knees to the door. When I reach the door and he still hasn't come after me, I turn to watch as he rolls onto his back. Blood splutters as guttural sounds escape him.
Pressing my back to the wall, I watch him choke on hisown blood. The piece of glass in his throat moves as he swallows and groans. Fearful glossy brown eyes stare at me.
I'm not shaking anymore. My body is perfectly still. A little cold, perhaps. My breathing is deep, steady, and precise.
The door beside me opens and Max strides out, his back to me for a moment.
Then he turns.
Narrowed grey eyes wrap themselves around me. Bronson and the scarred guard I'd seen at the wedding are beside Max in an instant. Their eyes fall to me on the floor, taking in the blood and glass. Xander bursts through the door next.
Completely ignoring Erik gargling on his own blood a few metres from my outstretched feet, the Butcher brothers drop to my side. One of them immediately wraps the wound on my forearm with something soft; a piece of fabric—a tie, I think. Big warm palms cup my cold, wet cheeks. Max searches my expression. Dropping his eyes, he studies each cut, scratch, and gash on my body as if creating a record in his mind. The stormy grey rings around his pupils thin to near nothing.
"She's in shock," Bronson murmurs, his voice soft, chilling. The voice of Mr. Hyde to his Jekyll. So, unlike the man I know. He gently strokes my hair.
Xander's eyes are frozen open. "I'm so sorry, Cassidy! Max, I'm so sorry."
I watch Max's face contort. Snap.
Break.
He jumps to his feet, swiftly and deadly. Pulling his gun out from the back of his pants, he points the muzzle between Erik's eyes.
"Stop," I say as I try to climb to my feet.
And to my absolute disbelief... Max does.
Bronson helps me stand. My legs are weak and sore, having been twisted and hauled around. Xander stands like a statue—stone cold. The other man merely steps back inside the corridor and closes the door behind him.
