I hit him.
One clean punch to the jaw.
His head snaps to the side. He stumbles back into the table, glass rattling.
Violet makes a small sound, breath catching. Her knees dip like her body can’t decide if it should fall apart now that help is here.
I don’t let her.
The guards rush again. More than two this time.
I move.
This is what I’m for.
Elbow. Fist. Shoulder. I put one down with a knee to the gut. Another with a punch that ends his interest in standing. Someone grabs at my cut and I turn, furious, and slam him into the wall hard enough to rattle the framed photos behind him.
No one touches my cut.
No one touches her.
The old money bastard tries to recover, wiping blood from his mouth, eyes wild now.
“You’re dead,” he spits. “You hear me? You’re—”
I step toward him, and he flinches.
Good.
I don’t finish it. Not here. Not in front of Violet.
I lean in close enough for only him to hear.
“You ever put your hands on her again,” I say quietly, “and I’ll chop them off.”
His eyes go wide.
I turn away from him like he’s nothing.
Because he is.
Violet sways, her breath coming too fast, her face turned toward me like I’m the only solid thing left in the room.
Her knees tremble.
That’s all it takes.
I scoop her up.
Bridal style, like it’s the most natural thing in the world, like she belongs in my arms.
She gasps, fingers curling into my cut like she doesn’t know where else to hold on. Her body is warm against mine, trembling. Her scent hits me, clean and sweet under club smoke, and it makes my grip tighten.
Mine.
I carry her through the room.
People stare. Step out of the way. Whisper.
