His smile tightens. “Excuse me?”
I let my voice stay low. “You came into my bar and called for my woman.”
The words land heavy.
Evie’s breath shudders. She stays in my lap.
The man’s eyes narrow. “Your woman.”
“Yes.”
He tries to aim his voice at her again, softer, like he can pull her out from behind me with a tone. “Evie. Get up.”
Her body locks. She doesn’t move.
My jaw tightens.
“She’s staying,” I say.
He exhales, controlled irritation leaking through. “She made an agreement.”
Evie’s fingers dig into my leather hard enough to wrinkle it.
I slide my thumb once along her waist, steadying.
“Breathe,” I murmur near her hair.
Her breath shakes out, thin.
The man watches my hand like he didn’t expect a biker to touch a woman gently.
He tries a different angle, still smooth. “She’s an adult. This is her choice.”
Choice.
I can hear the lie underneath it. I can see it in her posture, the way her shoulders are trying to curl inward like she can make herself smaller than her own skin.
I tip my head. “Then she chose. Me.”
His jaw flexes. “No, she didn’t. She’s playing a game.”
“She is mine,” I correct, and my voice stays calm because calm is worse. “This isn’t a game.”
Evie shifts like she wants to vanish again. Like she regrets existing loudly.
It twists something ugly in my chest.
The man’s eyes travel over her body, lingering like her fear belongs to him.
“Evie,” he says, patient now, “this won’t end the way you think it will.”
A promise. A threat.
The room is listening.
I lean forward a fraction, still seated, still holding her.
“This ends right now,” I tell him.
