Chapter 2
Kevin
Damn, it feels good to hear her say she belongs to me.
The thought hits me hard and fast, a rush of satisfaction that goes straight to my chest before I can stop it. Her boyfriend. She called me her boyfriend. Even if it's just for show, even if she's only saying it to get this asshole to back off, hearing those words from Steph's lips does something to me. It lights me up from the inside out.
But I don't get to enjoy it.
Not when this piece of shit still has his hand wrapped around her wrist. Not when I can see the panic in her eyes, the way her breathing has gone shallow and quick. Not when everything in me is screaming to put this guy through the nearest wall.
I'm seeing red.
Pure, white-hot rage that makes my vision tunnel and my fists clench so hard my knuckles crack. He's touching her. After everything she's been through—after the bruises I saw on her arms that night ten months ago, after the fear in her voice whenshe called 911, after watching her rebuild herself piece by piece—this drunk asshole thinks he has the right to put his hands on her.
I lean in closer, crowding his space, and drop my voice low enough that only he can hear the razor's edge in it.
"Let. Her. Go."
He must hear something in my tone—or maybe he recognizes the way every muscle in my body is coiled tight, ready to spring—because his hand opens and Steph yanks her arm back, cradling it against her chest.
I don't take my eyes off him.
"Time to settle up," I say, my voice still deadly calm even though my blood is pounding in my ears. "Pay your tab. And make sure you leave a nice tip."
"What? I'm not—"
"You're done here." I straighten to my full height, using every inch of the authority I've built over years in special ops and now on the force. "You've had too much to drink, and you just put your hands on someone who told you no. Multiple times. So here's what's going to happen. You're going to pay. You're going to leave. And you're going to do it without another word."
His face flushes red—anger or embarrassment, I don't care which. "You can't kick me out. You don't even work here."
"No, but I'm a cop. And if you don't move your ass right now, I'll be a cop making an arrest for harassment and public intoxication." I pull out my badge, letting him get a good look. "Your choice."
He glares at me, then at Steph, but something in my expression must convince him I'm not bluffing. He fumbles for his wallet, throws too many bills on the bar, and staggers to his feet.
"Steph," I say, not looking away from the drunk. "Call him a cab."
Her voice comes out steadier than I expected. "Already on it."
I follow the guy to the door, keeping myself between him and the rest of the bar. Archer's already there, arms crossed, reading the situation with the practiced eye of someone who's done this before.
"He's leaving," I tell Archer. "Cab's on the way. Make sure he gets in it and doesn't drive."
Archer nods once, all business. "Got it."
I watch as the drunk stumbles out into the night air, Archer trailing behind him like a very large, very intimidating shadow. Only when the door swings shut, do I let myself breathe.
My hands are still shaking.
Not from fear. From the effort of holding myself back. From not doing what every instinct in my body was screaming at me to do—grab that asshole by the throat and make him understand what happens to men who think they can put their hands on women who say no. Especially my woman. Or who will be one day. When she's ready.
I turn back to the bar, scanning for Steph.
She's gone.
Ainsley catches my eye from behind the bar, jerking her head toward the back hallway. "She needed a minute," she says quietly. "She's in the break room."
I nod and head that way, my heart still hammering against my ribs.
