“Let’s go,” she says to him.
They move towards the exit, and I follow.
Once outside, I step closer to them.
“So that’s the man I’m killing today,” I say, pointing at the bastard.
Mayhem breaks loose as a gun is snapped up at my head and Octavia spins in the same instant, a blade already in her hand.
Then she recognises me and exhales, visibly annoyed.
“What the hell do you think you’re doing here, Markev?”
“You didn’t seriously think you could post a picture of another man touching what’s mine and I would simply ignore it,” I say calmly.
She sighs. “Markev.”
I pull my gun and point it at the man, still holding Octavia’s gaze.
“You signed his death the moment you let him touch you.”
“Markev,” she snaps, icily now.
I barely hear her. I am far too busy deciding precisely how to kill him, and I already have at least ninety three ways in mind.
“Do not,” she grits out, “kill him.”
I look at her closely.
“Baby,” I murmur. “He touched you.”
“I hate you already,” she says flatly. “But if you do this—”
She doesn’t finish the sentence, and she doesn’t need to. I know my woman well, and I know how close they are.
I grit my teeth, trusting that close means friends, because if he has ever touched what is mine, I will…
Fuck it all to hell.
I see it in her eyes that if I kill him now, whatever slim chance I have with her will turn to ash.
I breathe out, irritated beyond reason, deciding I can follow him another day and make it look like an accident, though Octavia is too perceptive not to put it together.
Then I look at his hand.
The hand that touched her.
And I fire.
The shot cracks through the air, and he does little more than hiss in pain, impressive.
Octavia whirls on me. “What the hell—”
“I didn’t kill him,” I shrug, genuinely confused by the problem.
“You shot his hand.”
“That I did,” I say, unable to hide how proud I am. “That hand touched you.”
