Behind me, Lucky sucks in a breath. A hurting sound. He hears it, enjoys it.
And that’s the moment a darker part of me wakes up—an old, familiar instinct I haven’t felt since Afghanistan. The one that calculates how fast I can put a body through plate glass, how many steps to the curb, how loud Lucky will gasp if I break his jaw before he hits the floor.
This bastard abused her, made her small.
He thinks he can walk in here and claim her like property.
I take a step forward, shielding her completely.
“You’re going to walk back out that door,” I tell him, my voice low, deliberate, “before I make you.”
He finally looks at me—not with fear, but annoyance, like I’m an interruption.
He has no idea how dangerous that is.
Because I’m not angry. I’m controlled. And when I get like that, men like him don’t walk away without learning something.
Something painful.
He steps closer. “Lucky, sweetheart, you’ve been gone too long. Time to come home. I’ve forgiven your little tantrum—”
“You’re done talking.” My voice doesn’t rise. It doesn’t need to.
One of the bodyguards cracks his knuckles. “Move.”
I look at him once—flat, unimpressed. “If you want a fight, we can take it outside.”
“Ethan—” Lucky grabs my arm, fingers trembling.
Jett laughs. “Look at this. Guard dog thinks he matters. Do you even understand who you’re dealing with? She belongs to me.”
Lucky recoils like he slapped her. “I don’t belong to anyone.”
Jett leans in, poison curling off every word. “I picked you up out of the gutter. Your whore mother certainly didn’t help you. Without me, you’re nothing.”
Her breath stutters. Her panic spikes—hot, frantic, silent. I feel it like a shock to the nervous system.
And that’s it.
The part of me that tries to stay measured—civilian—switches off.
I grab Jett by the back of the skull and drive his face into the table. Hardwood and bone connect with a crack. The salt shaker jumps. Blood spreads instantly.
He howls.
Lucky jerks out of her chair, shock blanching her features.
The goons lunge.
“Ethan!” Lucky screams.
I’m already moving.
I pivot, catch the first one’s punch mid-swing, twist his arm, and snap the elbow clean out of its socket. He screams as I shove him into the second man, sending them both crashing into a table.
Second guy recovers fast—too fast—and reaches for metal at his hip.
Gun.
