His stomach growled loud enough to alert the entire complex to his arrival. Maybe he could convince Beth to go out for Tex-Mex once she got over the shock of his unannounced and uninvited visit.
Sorry, not sorry.
Especially if his trip helped clear the worry from Copper and Shell’s eyes.
As he climbed the outdoor staircase leading to the second floor, a loud thud had his well-honed danger senses prickling.
Most people would assume a tenant was rearranging furniture, but Saint had kicked enough asses to recognize the sound of a body being slammed against a wall.
A sharp, feminine cry, followed by a shouted, “No!” came floating down the stairwell, clear as day.
Shit.
His gut tensed for one second before his reflexes kicked in. He sprinted up the stairs two at a time, arriving on the second floor in time to hear a terrified sob coming from the apartment to his right.
Apartment 2C.
Protective instincts he worked hard to keep from spiraling out of control thundered to life inside him, shredding through his earlier good mood like paper. He didn’t think twice. The part of him that belonged to the Hell’s Handlers—the enforcer-in-training, the patched brother, the ruthless bastard when necessary—took over.
He charged through the door like a raging bull. The wood banged against the wall, then rebounded, slamming into hisshoulder, but he barely felt the impact. His entire attention narrowed to the large man with one hand around Beth’s throat and the other fisted in her hair, craning her neck up at an unnatural angle.
The soon-to-be-dead man.
Beth’s face was mottled red, eyes wide with panic, and lips parted as she fought for air. Bruises darkened the soft skin of her neck. Her bare feet scrabbled uselessly against the floor.
A roar ripped from Saint’s chest, raw and primal. He lunged, latching onto the asshole’s T-shirt and ripping him off Beth with one brutal yank.
The choked, strangled sound Beth made when the pressure vanished would haunt him for a long damn time.
Without a thought for what he might damage in the guy or Beth’s apartment, Saint flung him across the room, where he crashed into a coffee table and crumbled to the floor with a satisfying cry. Wood splintered, and something glass shattered, but all Saint could hear was his own pulse pounding in his ears.
Fury boiled his blood, scorching hot and uncontrollable.
How fucking dare you touch one of ours?
He pounced before the prick had the chance to rise, planting his knee on the guy’s chest to keep him on the ground. “Who the fuck do you think you are? What the hell gives you the right to put your hands on her?” he shouted at the stunned and furious man.
“Who am I?” the piece of shit spat, wheezing beneath the pressure on his diaphragm. “I’m her fucking man. Who the fuck are you?”
Fuck that.
Saint spent enough time busting kneecaps with Zach over the years to learn how to put the fear of God in men with just one look, and this guy didn’t disappoint, paling beneath Saint’s deadly glare.
His lips curled in a sinister smirk as he leaned down and whispered, “I’m the man who’s gonna make you wish you’d learned the right way to treat your woman.”
The guy’s face contorted in anger. “Fuck y—”
Saint plowed his fist into the asshole’s face with a rewarding crunch.
White-hot satisfaction exploded across his knuckles.
The man howled and thrashed beneath his weight but was no match for the firestorm of fury coursing through Saint’s veins. Over and over, he rammed his fist into that smug face until the eyes swelled and a red river ran from the nose. His other hand fisted in the guy’s shirt, anchoring him as Saint turned his features into unrecognizable meat.
Time and space disappeared until nothing remained but the desire to inflict pain on this motherfucker who dared touch their club’s princess with anything but care. Every scream from his childhood, every bruise he’d suffered, every protective instinct he had for his loved ones poured into each punch.
In the back of his mind, he heard the faintest shout, but couldn’t pull himself out of his rage haze. His heart pounded, his breath came in harsh grunts, and his world shrank to bloody knuckles and the satisfying give of bone.
After a few moments, Beth’s boyfriend went limp beneath him, but the lack of struggle wasn’t enough. Saint wanted to bathe in his blood for what he’d done to her.
