She walks inside confidently, disappearing through the door.
I park down the block and sit there for a while, inhaling deeply, trying to calm the chaos rioting in my chest. I shouldn’t be doing this—following her like some stalker—but I can’t make myself leave. I get out of the car and head for the club, every step feeling like a terrible idea.
Inside, the music is even louder, the bass actually shaking the floor. The place is packed with bodies pressed together on the dance floor, the smell of alcohol and sweat and too much cologne filling the air.
I make my way to the bar and order a shot of whiskey from the bartender. From this angle, I can see most of the room, including the dance floor. Including Anne.
She’s near the center with a drink in one hand, dancing with a group of women who look like they’re having the time of their lives. Her movements are extraordinarily fluid; she looks so free, it makes my entire body ache.
Gradually, a man approaches her. He gets close—too damn close—and then, he leans in to whisper something in her ear. But it’s the way his hand hovers near her waist that makes my vision narrow.
A growl rumbles in my chest as pure rage springs to life so fast, it nearly overwhelms my control. I want to cross the room and rip his head off for daring to get that close to her, for touching what’s mine. But what right do I have to get angry? I’m the one who pushed her away. I’m the one who lied to her.
Anne smiles at the man, then shakes her head and says something I can’t hear over the music, but from her body language, it looks like a polite decline to whatever he said to her. The man nods, still smiling, and backs away.
He walks straight to the end of the bar where I’m standing. I watch him order a drink, and the bartender fixes it and slides it across. The man picks it up—but then, he turns slightly away from the crowd, and my vision narrows even further.
His hand dips into his jacket pocket and pulls out something small—a vial or a capsule. He pours it into the drink with an ease that lets me know this isn’t the first time he’s doing something like this. He glances around to make sure no one’s watching. Then, he turns, drink in hand, and starts walking back toward Anne.
Oh, I don’t fucking think so.
I move immediately, cutting across the floor, bumping into him hard enough that the drink flies out of his hand and splashes across the floor.
“What the fuck?” The man spins on me, face flushing with anger. “What’s your problem, asshole?”
My hands ball into fists at my sides, every muscle coiled tight. I could tear him apart with one swipe, could snap his neck before he even registered the movement. That would be the end of this pathetic human who just tried to spike my mate’s drink.
“Watch where you’re going,” I say, voice flat and cold.
“Watch where I’m—” He steps closer, chest puffing up. “You ran into me, you stupid son of a bitch! You owe me a drink!”
People are starting to notice us as he raises his voice. Heads turn in our direction. I don’t want to make a scene; I can’t let Anne see me here. I turn around and walk toward the exit, hoping this guy won’t be able to watch me leave without a fight.
“Where the hell do you think you’re going?” The man yells. “You think you can just walk away? Fuck you!”
I push through the door and head down the street. The buffoon keeps shouting insults and following me, like an idiot. I make a turn into an alley between two buildings.
“You cowardly piece of shit! Too scared to face me? That’s right, keep walking, you fucking pussy!”
I go deeper into the alley, where it’s dark and empty, and pray to the Goddess that this man is dumb enough to join me.
He is.
“Yeah, that’s what I thought. Fucking coward, hiding in an alley. What, you gonna cry now? Gonna beg me not to beat your ass?”
I spin, grab him by the throat before he can react, and slam him against the brick wall hard enough that his head bounces off it. His eyes go wide with shock and fear as my hand tightens.
“What the—” he chokes out, his hands scrabbling at my wrist.
I punch him once, then twice…then again. His jaw cracks under my knuckles, and warm, slick blood sprays across my hand.
“Please,” he gasps, spitting red. “Please, I’m sorry, I didn’t—”
Every instinct I have screams to finish this, to end him for daring to try to drug Anne. But I can’t. It would lead to too many questions and too much attention.
“If you ever roofy a woman’s drink again, you’re dead,” I growl menacingly.
I punch him one more time and let him drop. He goes unconscious before he hits the ground. I turn to leave, wiping blood off my fingers and onto my shirt.
