Strong hands clamp around my arms from behind.
Another set grabs Carmen, hauling her upright.
“Break it up!” someone barks.
“Enough!” another voice shouts, closer.
The Saints drag us apart like we’re two animals tearing into each other. For a second I fight them, instinctive, feral, then I remember why I’m here and force myself still even though my body still wants to swing.
Blood drips from the corner of my mouth onto the concrete.
I swipe it with the back of my hand and feel my cheek already swelling.
Carmen’s lip is split too, a thin line of red at the corner that makes her look less polished and more real. Her eyes stay locked on mine, furious and humiliated and something else underneath.
Threatened.
We stand there breathing hard, chests heaving, hair messy, clothes rumpled, while the room watches like it’s a show they paid for.
Then the front door slams open.
The sound cuts through everything.
The bass might still be thumping, neon might still be bleeding across chrome and ink, but the room goes quiet anyway.
Because Diablo just walked in.
He steps inside like the night belongs to him, dark and dangerous and furious in a way that doesn’t need volume. He’s dressed in black, cut hanging open, new ink crawling up his throat. He scans the chaos once, and the room yields around him without him asking.
For a heartbeat his gaze lands on Carmen first.
Then it finds me.
And he sees the blood.
Something in his face changes.
Not confusion. Not surprise.
Cold.
He crosses the room in seconds, boots heavy, presence swallowing space. The Saints holding me loosen their grip immediately without being told. Nobody wants to be the one touching me when Diablo decides he’s done playing polite.
His hand cups my jaw gently, thumb brushing the blood at my lip with maddening care. Controlled. Not soft. The restraint in it tightens my throat and does something traitorous to my pulse.
“You’re bleeding,” he utters, his voice hushed.
“I’ve had worse,” I mutter, because pride is the only thing keeping my knees from buckling.
His eyes flicker once, like the words stabbed him. His thumb pauses, then drags slow across my mouth.
He turns his head toward Carmen without taking his hand off me.
“What the fuck happened?” Diablo asks.
Carmen straightens, chin lifting, politician mask snapping back into place. “She came in accusing me of crimes I didn’t commit,” she says smoothly. “And then she attacked me.”
“I defended myself,” I snap, trying to step forward, but Diablo’s hand tightens slightly on my jaw, holding me still.
