He doesn’t respond. His entire body is pulsating with barely restrained violence. I can see the veins bulging in his neck, the way his jaw is locked tight, the absolute fury blazing in his eyes.
“Darius.” I reach out and place my hand on his arm.
He flinches at the contact but doesn’t release Marcus.
“Let him go,” I say again, quieter this time. “He’s not worth it.”
“He touched you.” The words come out strangled, like they’re being ripped from somewhere deep inside him.
“He tried. He didn’t succeed.”
“He—”
“I handled it.” I step closer, feeling the tremor running through him, the tension coiled in every muscle. “I handled it, Darius. Let him go.”
For a long moment, nothing happens. Marcus’s face is turning purple, his struggles getting weaker.
Finally, slowly, Darius’s fingers loosen. Marcus drops to the floor, gasping and coughing, his hand clutching his throat.
Darius doesn’t look at him. Still blazing gold, his eyes are locked on mine, and his chest is heaving.
I hear footsteps in the corridor.
Darius’s old friend Ethan appears in the doorway, taking in the scene with one quick glance. Marcus on the floor. Darius trying to control himself. Me standing between them.
“I’ll take care of this,” Ethan says calmly, moving toward Marcus. “You two should go.”
I hesitate. “I need to—”
“I’ll get his statement and the security footage.” Ethan haulsMarcus to his feet with zero gentleness. “HR will have everything they need. Go.”
Darius’s hand wraps around my wrist gently despite the fury still running through him. “Come on.”
He pulls me out of the copy room, down the hall, and into an empty conference room. The door closes behind us with a soft click.
Then, he just stands there, breathing hard, the fingers of his free hand flexing at his side like he doesn’t know what to do with himself.
“I’m fine,” I say, pulling my wrist free. “I don’t need—”
“Show me your hands.”
“What?”
“Your hands.” His voice is rough. Controlled, but only barely. “Show me.”
“They’re fine.”
“Violet.” The urgency with which he says my name makes my breath catch. “Show me your hands. Now.”
I hold them out with a huff of annoyance. “See? I’m—”
He grabs them before I can finish, his grip light but firm. His eyes lock on the red marks on my palms where my nails dug in during the confrontation. Small crescents that are already starting to bruise.
His jaw clenches so hard, I hear his teeth grind.
“It’s nothing,” I say, trying to pull away. “They’ll heal in a few hours.”
He doesn’t let go. Just stares at the marks as if they’re burns instead of minor scrapes.
