I don’t need to hear anyone tell me what I’m doing is wrong. I know it’s not right. I just don’t give a fuck. She belongs to me. If I want to follow her around or have my men follow her, that’s what I’m going to do. If this guy even tries to touch her, I’ll kill him.
My driver stops across from The Black Star Bar and Grill, the bar where Arabelle and this motherfucker are having their date. Tonight is the first time in a long time she’s changed her routine, and I don’t like it one fucking bit.
“I can’t believe she’s on a fucking date,” I mumble, waiting for an update from Hugo. “Her laughs and smiles are mine. Not this motherfucker’s.”
As soon as my phone rings, I grab it. Before I can speak, all that fills the air is the sound of Hugo’s loud breathing, music, and laughter.
“I think the motherfucker drugged her, Beast. Move the fuck out of the way!”
Anger surges through my body like a tidal wave. “I’m going to gut that motherfucker.”
“I’m following them toward the back of the bar,” Hugo continues. “She’s stumbling, and her words are slurred from what I can hear. They haven’t been here long enough for her to have drank that much, Beast. He had to have drugged her.”
I can hear the genuine concern for her safety in his voice, which sends another surge of anger and panic through me.
“I’ll meet you around back.”I end the call, and without hesitation, I exit my vehicle and sprint toward the back of the bar, where a narrow, dimly lit alleyway separates the bar from the neighboring business.
The air is saturated with the scent of damp wood and the sour smell of garbage. Stacks of crates lean against the brick wall of the bar, contrasting with the rusty green dumpster nearby. Idodge greasy-looking puddles of God knows what, maybe dried vomit or piss, and shards of broken glass.
The metal exit door to the bar swings open, creating a loud bang as it slams against the building. Pierre Gaultier steps out, his arms wrapped tightly around Arabelle. She can barely walk, her footsteps are slow and heavy, and she can’t keep her eyes open.
I’m going to kill him.
He hasn’t seen me yet, and I look over his shoulder when Hugo steps out of the bar. He quietly closes the door behind him.
As Pierre Gaultier pulls Arabelle along, she trips over her own feet, and one of her heels comes off, her bare foot hitting one of the many puddles of muck.
“Come on, bitch!” He slams her tiny frame against the grimy brick wall of the bar and pushes her skirt up above her waist.
Mumbling and resisting, she tries to push him away, but whatever he gave her has left her disoriented and powerless to fight off someone who has at least seventy-five pounds on her.
While he tries to undo the button on his jeans, her head falls onto his shoulder.
“Whoa, is she all right?” I ask as I approach them. “She’s not looking too good.”
I’m trying to stay as calm as possible when all I can see is red. He looks up and stops fumbling with his jeans. He grabs her and begins pulling her toward the end of the alley while attempting to maneuver around me.
“Yes, she’s fine,” he says. “You know how drunk bitches can get.”
I stop him in his tracks by placing my palm on his chest. At the same time, I remove my knife from the sheath attached to the waistband at the back of my dress slacks. I like carrying knives better than guns. They’re silent and efficient.
“I’m just trying to take my girlfriend home,” he says in an irritated tone. “Get the fuck out of my way!”
He hasn’t noticed Hugo moving up behind him.
“Your girl?” I chuckle, arching my brow. “She’s mine, Pierre. Not yours.”
Ignoring any possible response, I thrust the knife into his abdomen, warm blood instantly staining my hands. As I observe his eyes widening with shock and then filling with fear, a twisted pleasure courses through my black soul. He releases his grip on Arabelle, and Hugo catches her before she hits the ground.
I glance at Hugo. “Take her to the hospital,” I order. “Call me.”
Seeing the dazed look in her eyes and hearing her struggle to speak tightens my heart in my chest. Despite the consuming need to go with her, I need to deal with this asshole first.
Hugo nods and disappears from the alley, carrying a confused Arabelle.
My attention is drawn back to the man, his hands tightly gripping my shoulders while blood slowly trickles from his mouth. Fury, rage, and determination surge through my veins, igniting every fiber of my being—fury because he thought he could get away with raping her, rage because he tricked her to get her in this position in the first fucking place, and determination to protect her from anyone who wants to harm her, including myself.
“You think you can touch her and get away with it?”
