Jason swallows hard. "Look, man, I didn't—"
"Answer the question."
"I don't—"
"It makes you a rapist." Boone's voice is flat, factual, terrifying. "Maybe not legally, since she got away. But in every way that actually fucking matters? That's what you are."
"Fuck you, I'm not—"
Boone slams him against the wall again. "Yes. You are. And I want you to remember this moment. Remember how it feels to be powerless. To have someone bigger and stronger than you decide what happens to your body. To be scared and trapped and helpless. Remember it."
"Get the fuck off me!" Jason tries to struggle, but it's like watching a child fight a bear.
"I'm going to let you go now," Boone continues, voice deadly calm. "And you're going to leave. You're going to stay away from Nicole. You're going to stay away from every woman in this town. And if I ever—*ever*—hear about you pulling this shit again, I will find you. I will hurt you. And I won't stop until you understand in your bones what it means to respect the word 'no.' We clear?"
Jason nods frantically.
"I can't hear you."
"We're clear! Jesus Christ, we're clear!"
Boone releases him. Jason stumbles, catches himself against the opposite wall, and for a second I think he might actually run.
Instead, he spits blood on the floor and glares at Boone. "You're gonna regret that, asshole. I know people. My uncle's a cop. You just assaulted me—"
That's as far as he gets before Boone's fist connects with his face.
Jason drops like a puppet with cut strings. Just... crumples to the floor in a heap, out cold.
"Oops," Boone says flatly. "My hand slipped."
I stare at Jason's unconscious body. At Boone standing over him, breathing hard, knuckles split and bleeding. At the raw, protective fury still burning in his eyes.
And I think: *I am so completely, irrevocably, stupidly in love with this man.*
"We should go," Boone says, turning to me. His expression softens immediately, all that violence transforming intokindness in the space of a heartbeat. "Before someone calls the cops. Can you walk?"
"Yeah." My voice comes out breathy. "Yeah, I'm fine."
He offers me his hand. That big, scarred, bloodied hand, and I take it without hesitation. His fingers close around mine, warm, rough and steady.
"Come on, sweetheart," he murmurs, guiding me over Jason's body and down the hallway. "Let's get you home."
Sweetheart.
He's never called me that before.
I follow him through the party in a daze. People stare but no one stops us. Boone keeps my hand in his, keeps his body between me and anyone who gets too close, and doesn't let go until we're outside in the cold night air.
His truck is parked halfway on the lawn, driver's door still open, engine still running. He was in such a hurry he didn't even turn it off.
He was in such a hurry to get to me.
"In you go." He opens the passenger door and helps me up like I'm something precious. Clicks the seatbelt across my chest. Closes the door gently.
Then he's sliding into the driver's seat, putting the truck in gear, pulling away from that house and that party and Jason's body.
We drive in silence for maybe thirty seconds before I start shaking.
