“Let go.” My voice comes out thin. Scared.
“Relax, baby.” Hot, sour breath against my ear. “You were putting on quite a show. Can’t blame a guy for wanting a piece.”
I yank harder. His fingers dig in to bruise. The bar noise warps into slow motion?—
Then an arm slides around my waist.
This one doesn’t grab or grope. It settles with a possessive familiarity that stops my lungs cold.
“There you are, sweetheart.” The voice is deep and controlled, with an edge in it that cuts straight through the music. “I was starting to think you’d forgotten you had a boyfriend.”
I look up.
Storm-gray eyes. A face that belongs in a museum—or on a wanted poster. Sharp jaw, dark stubble, military-short hair just long enough to curl if he let it. He’s tall enough that I have to tilt my head back, broad enough that his body becomes a wall between me and Flannel Shirt without him having to try. He isn’t looking at me. His gaze is locked on the man still gripping my arm, and there’s nothing emotional in his expression. Just cold, precise calculation.
“She’s with me.” He doesn’t raise his voice. He doesn’t need to. “Find another target.”
Flannel Shirt’s grip loosens but doesn’t drop. “Didn’t see you anywhere, buddy. Think the lady can speak for herself.”
The stranger’s mouth curves—not a smile, exactly. The kind of expression a blade might make if it could. “The lady shouldn’t have to. But since you need it spelled out—” A small, deliberate shift of his weight. Just that. The casual arrangement of muscle under his dark Henley, his free hand resting easy at his side like a threat in standby. “She’s not interested. She’s taken. And you’re about three seconds from finding out what happens to men who can’t read a clearNo.”
He delivers it conversationally, almost pleasantly, which somehow makes it worse. Flannel Shirt’s hand drops from my arm as I burned him. He mutters something that means nothing and retreats into the crowd.
I should step away now. Thank this stranger and walk. Instead, I register that his arm is still around me, solid andwarm, and for the first time tonight, I actually feel safe. Which is irrational.
Everything about this man broadcasts danger. The coiled readiness in his body. The way he assessed the situation with no visible emotion. The way the crowd parts around him without him having to ask.
“You hurt?” His voice shifts when he finally looks at me. Still deep, but quieter.
I shake my head.
“Good.” He starts to drop his arm, and I suffer an embarrassing, very specific pull of disappointment. “You should be more careful. Place like this, woman alone, dancing like that—you’re asking for trouble.”
“Excuse me? Dancing like what?”
“Like you’re trying to start a riot.” A rough current runs through the words—not criticism, not quite admiration. Something between. “Trust me, I’ve been watching you for twenty minutes. I’m probably the only man in here whose first instinct was protection instead of possession.”
His gaze drops—a single, unhurried sweep from my face down the length of the dress and back up. It isn’t subtle. It isn’t meant to be. The heat in it lands against my skin like a touch.
“You’ve been watching me?”
“Someone had to.” He scans the bar. I follow his line of sight and register, belatedly, how many eyes are still aimed in my direction. Not at us. At me. “That asshole wasn’t the only one tracking you. There are at least two others waiting for their shot.”
A chill moves over my skin despite the heat. “I can take care of myself.”
“Maybe.” His eyes return to my face. Dark, direct, unreadable. “But why should you have to? Dance with me instead.”
It isn’t quite a question. His hand extends between us, palm up.
Every rational part of me lines up its counterarguments. Instead, when the band shifts into something slow and dark, all low bass and liquid guitar, I put my hand in his.
He pulls me in—one smooth motion, no hesitation—and every nerve ending I own wakes up simultaneously. He’s all hard planes and coiled strength barely contained under his clothes.
One hand settles low on my back, deliberate and warm, fingers spanning the strip of skin the dress leaves bare. The contact is a jolt. The other hand traps mine against his chest, where I can feel his heartbeat—steady, unhurried, as though threatening men in bars is simply how he spends his Thursdays.
“What’s your name?” I ask because I need something to say, or I’ll embarrass myself entirely.
“Kade.” No last name. No elaboration. “You?”
