This was nothing compared to what Copper would demand he do to the piece of shit.
He tensed with his fist cocked back for another blow.
There it was again, the low cry that penetrated deeper into his brain this time.
Beth.
Jesus Christ. Beth.
His body froze, hovering over her boyfriend’s still form. He hadn’t even checked on her. What kind of asshole was he?
Breathe.
His inner voice, the part of his brain that kept him sane and taught him to compartmentalize years of childhood trauma, whispered in his ear. So he listened. Who was he to ignore the instinct that had helped him survive brutal beatings, psychological warfare, and working twelve-hour days as a small child?
He inhaled, drawing in the pine-laden scent of Beth’s apartment, tinged with her fear and the coppery tang of blood. His hand throbbed, knuckles already swelling, but the pain helped. After holding his breath for a brief second, he blew out slowly, then repeated the action.
Whether the deep breathing had a calming effect or the sound of Beth’s quiet sobs overrode his anger didn’t matter. The result was the same.
Still crouched over his prey, he turned his head and met the green-eyed gaze of his president’s beloved daughter.
The utter despair in her eyes punched him in the gut ten times harder than he’d hit the piece of shit on the floor. Her dress, a short, flowy purple number, had a torn strap dangling. Her gorgeous strawberry hair, which she’d clearly spent time curling, was mussed and tangled from her boyfriend’s rough grip. Makeup she’d applied at some point ran from her eyes, streaking across her flushed cheeks and emphasizing the trauma she’d just endured.
Individually, each of those was enough to earn the boyfriend a solid beating, but when he added the bruises on her throat and the swelling on her cheek, the bastard would be lucky to survive the night.
Even traumatized and tear-streaked, she was stunning. The observation felt wrong, but his brain noted it anyway.
Shit, he’d made a mistake volunteering to be the one to check on her.
But none of that mattered now.
He rose with slow, sure movements, designed to keep from scaring her. She’d just been assaulted, then witnessed him perform a spectacular act of violence. Most likely, she wouldn’t be too keen to have another large man in her space. As softly as he could manage in size twelve boots, he crossed the distance between them and kneeled before her.
Now that he was close, she averted her gaze, staring at her updrawn knees. Her shoulders shook with silent tremors.
“Are you hurt?” he whispered.
She shook her head immediately, a jerky, automatic denial.
Yeah, he didn’t buy that.She might not be hurt enough to need medical attention, but her throat had to be raw and her face throbbing. As soon as he got her out of there, he’d make damn sure to get some ice on her cheek.
“May I touch you?”
She tensed, muscles going tight as guitar strings.
“Just to check your neck and your face,” he added, keeping his voice low.
This time, he got a nod and a raspy, “Yes.”
As he lifted his hand, both their gazes locked on his torn and bloody knuckles. “Shit,” he whispered. “Sorry.”
“Are you okay?” she croaked.
He grunted. “Don’t even feel it. Too much adrenaline. My fingers are clean. Promise I won’t get that bastard’s blood on you.”
Gently as he could, he lifted her chin with one fingertip. There it was again, that punch to his solar plexus when their gazes collided. Those eyes had always been bright, sassy, full of mischief. Seeing them washed out with fear made something vicious curl in his chest.
Conflicting violence and tenderness warred inside him. A huge part of him wanted to go back over to Jason and finish the job—rip him from limb to limb, make him beg for his life, only to snuff it out. But another impulse, softer and more dangerous, wanted to gather Beth in his arms and promise he’d never let her experience a moment of sadness again.
