"I saw." Pope's eyes flick to the guy I'm still pinning against the pillar, then back to me. "And you made your point. Now let him go before this becomes a bigger problem."
Every muscle in my body screams to finish what I started. To make this piece of shit understand that touching her—touching Ruby—is off limits. That she's under protection now whether she knows it or not.
That she's mine.
Except she's not mine. She doesn't belong to me. I don't even know her beyond her name and the weight of her terrified apology still echoing in my head.
But the possessive rage burning through my veins doesn't give a fuck about logic.
"Havoc." Pope's voice drops lower, takes on the edge of command that means this isn't a suggestion anymore. "Let. Him. Go."
I release the asshole, and he crumples, coughing, one hand pressed to his bleeding mouth.
"Get him out of here," Pope tells Stone, who's materialized at his shoulder. "His money's good but he's done for the night. Maybe longer."
Stone nods, gesturing to the guy's buddies. "You heard the man. Help your friend walk. And don't come back until you remember how to act like you've got some fucking manners."
They scramble to comply, hauling the bleeding guy toward the exit. He keeps looking back at me like he might say something, but survival instinct must kick in because he stays quiet.
The crowd that had gathered starts to disperse. In a casino like this, violence isn't exactly uncommon, and most of the regulars know better than to gawk when the brothers are involved.
I'm still standing there, fists clenched, breathing hard, when Pope steps into my line of sight.
"My office," he says quietly. "Now."
"Pope—"
"That wasn't a request, brother."
Fuck.
I glance past him, looking for Ruby, and find her standing by table eighteen with her empty tray clutched to her chest like a shield. Her eyes are wide, dark, locked on me with an expression I can't read. Fear? Shock? Something else?
Liz has an arm around her shoulders, saying something in her ear, but Ruby doesn't seem to hear it. She's just staring at me.
I want to go to her. Want to make sure she's okay, that the asshole didn't hurt her, that she understands I wasn't trying to scare her, I was trying to protect her.
But Pope's hand lands on my shoulder, steering me toward the back hallway.
"Office," he repeats. "Before I make this an order you'll regret ignoring."
I let him guide me away from the floor, through the employee areas, up the stairs to the second-floor offices where the club handles business. My knuckles are split, bleeding sluggishly, and my shoulder's barking from the old shrapnel wound that likes to remind me it exists whenever I throw a punch.
Worth it.
Pope's office is exactly what you'd expect from a MC president who runs a successful casino—half legitimate business, half outlaw clubhouse. A massive desk dominates one side, paperwork and laptop organized. The other side has a worn leather couch, a mini fridge stocked with beer, and walls covered in photos of the club over the years.
He closes the door behind us and leans against his desk, arms crossed, staring at me with the kind of patience that means he's waiting for me to explain myself.
I don't have an explanation that makes sense.
"You want to tell me what the fuck that was about?" he finally asks.
"Guy had his hands on her."
"I saw. And she was handling it." Pope's voice is calm, but there's steel underneath. "You know the protocol. Waitresses deal with handsy drunks all the time. If they need backup, they call for it. You don't start swinging unless it escalates."
"It escalated."
