I look at him, noting how he held the wrench in his right hand. I let that inner monster peek out, that quiet voice that urges me to be reckless, to steal shit, to lay claim to things. I so rarely get to unleash it, even for a moment.
“Right.”
Rafe flashes me a grin and nods, like he approves. Crowe, however, blanches. The color leaks out of his face.
“Don’t just fucking sit there. This crazy asshole is going to chop off my fucking hand,” Crowe yells to his friends.
Rafe only chuckles. “No one’s chopping off hands today?—”
“Though I think the utility knife could probably do it. It’s pretty sharp,” I interrupt, spotting the knife I dropped in all the commotion.
I scoop it up and stand next to Rafe. I don’t actually know if that’s true, but I want him to feel as afraid as he was trying to make me feel when he so casually discussed forcing himself and his friends on me.
Crowe looks at me, disgust painting his features long and drawn out. “What the fuck?”
I lift a shoulder and flash him the blade. “I’m just saying.”
Crowe backs up a few steps. “You’re both fucked up, you know that, right?” Crowe trips over his own feet and falls down on the pavement hard.
Crowe tries to scramble up, but Rafe is on him before he gets both feet planted. There’s no warning—no barking, no threat—just a blur of movement and a sickening, wet snap.
His mouth opens in a yell so raw, even his cowardly backup flinches.
But not Rafe. He looks almost bored by the spectacle.
“Relax. It’s just your wrist. I spared your hand, so you can still ride with a cast,” Rafe says, the words razor-blade smooth. He steps in, towering, and looks down at what’s left of Crowe’s bravado. “You’re fucking welcome.”
The whole time, I’m frozen—partly by the violence, partly by the quiet satisfaction on Rafe’s face. Crowe had it coming.
“Go ahead,” Rafe says, gesturing dismissively toward Crowe’s boys. “Pick him up and get the fuck out of here.” His voice is calm, but there’s a pulse of something wild behind it. Something that makes the men on the ground scramble to obey, dragging Crowe away with limp desperation.
Rafe’s attention swings to me. All the ice in his expression thaws in an instant; he’s scanning me for damage, not even pretending to hide the panic behind his eyes.
He closes the distance in two strides. His hand, the one he just used to break that guy’s wrist, palms the front of my throat so gently, it makes my knees a little weak. He drops his forehead to mine, kissing me hard once.
“You sure you’re okay?”
“Me? Areyou?”
He rolls his forehead along mine, dropping another kiss to my lips. “Baby, I’m fine. This is nothing.” There’s the faintest hint of a smile at the corner of his mouth.
“Just a Tuesday, huh?” I exhale a chuckle.
“Come on,” he says, nodding toward his bike like we didn’t just go from zero to violence and back again in ten minutes. “We’ve got more straps to cut.”
“Okay.”
We get on his bike. The engine turns over and we pull out onto the road, and I wait for the wind to do what it’s supposed to do—clear my head, cool me down, put some distance between me and the last ten minutes.
It doesn’t.
I’m still seeing his face when he turned to check on me. Still feeling the particular weight of his hand closing around my throat.
I shift behind him without meaning to. My arms tighten around his middle.
His hand drops from the handlebar and covers mine where it’s pressed against his stomach. “You good?” he calls back.
“Yeah.” I nod against his back.
