Jason laughs. "Right. Sure. Who'd you call? Your mommy? Oh wait—"
He doesn't get to finish that sentence because somewhere in the house, there's a crash. Shouting. Then heavy footsteps, getting closer.
The bathroom door stops rattling.
"The fuck—" Jason starts to say.
Then there's a sound like someone getting hit by a freight train, a grunt of pain, and Jason's voice saying "Jesus Christ" in a way that sounds a lot like fear.
"Where is she?"
Boone's voice. Deep, rough and absolutely lethal.
"Who the fuck are you?" Jason, trying to sound tough and failing.
"Where. Is. She."
"The bathroom, man, Jesus, she locked herself in there and—"
There's another crash. The sound of someone hitting the wall. Hard.
"Try again," Boone says, voice dropping even lower. "And this time, don't lie to me about what you were doing."
Silence. Then Jason's voice, smaller now: "Look, man, it's not… We were just talking and she—"
"She called me from a locked bathroom." Each word is precise, spitted with rage. "Told me you wouldn't let her leave. Told me you were trying to force your way in. That sound like 'just talking' to you?"
"I didn't—she's overreacting—"
"Open the door, Nicole." Boone's voice is calmer. "It's safe now."
My hands shake as I unlock the door. It swings open to reveal Boone standing in the hallway, one large hand fisted in Jason's shirt, holding him against the wall like he weighs nothing. Jason's nose is bleeding. He looks terrified.
He should be.
Boone looks... Good. Fucking good. He looks like an avenging angel. All six-foot-three of solid muscle and righteous fury, brown eyes dark and dangerous, jaw clenched so tight I can see the muscle jumping beneath his stubble.
He's in his usual work clothes. Worn jeans, dusty boots, a flannel shirt with the sleeves rolled up to reveal those powerful forearms. His brown hair is messy like he's been running his hands through it. He smells like horses and hay like every single time.
"You okay?" he asks me, not looking away from Jason.
"I'm okay," I manage. "I'm fine now."
"Did he touch you?"
The question is casual. The tone is not.
"He tried," I admit. "I said no. He didn't listen. That's when I locked myself in the bathroom."
Boone's jaw clenches tighter. "Tried how?"
"His hand on my leg. Then higher. I stopped him before—" My voice cracks. "I stopped him."
"Good girl." The praise makes me clench my thighs. "Colt taught you well."
He did. Colt made sure I knew how to protect myself, how to fight back, how to get away. But knowing self-defense techniques and actually using them when you're scared and outnumbered are two very different things.
"I want to be very clear about something," Boone says, turning his attention back to Jason. "Nicole said no. That's the only word that matters. You didn't listen. You trapped her. You tried to force yourself on her. Do you understand what that makes you?"
