"I like being alone."
"Nobody likes being alone."
He leans forward, trying to see what I’m drawing.
"Whatcha got there? You an artist or something?"
I close the sketchbook, my jaw tightening, annoyed that this irritating fucker has ruined my mood, taken me out of the zone.
"Look, I'm just trying to eat. I'm not looking for company."
"Just one drink," he presses. "Come on, one drink. I'll buy."
"No."
"You don't gotta be a bitch about it."
"I said no." I keep my voice level, controlled, even though fury is starting to simmer under my skin. I'd dealt with guys like this before. Usually they got the hint eventually and slunk away to bother someone else. But this one isn’t moving.
"What, you think you're too good for me?" he says, his tone altering, turning ugly. "Sitting here in your little dress, tits practically hanging out, and you think you can just…"
"I think you should leave." I meet his eyes, letting him see that I’m not scared. Just done. "Now."
For a second I think he might actually listen and accept that he is crossing a line, that this isn't going to end the way he wants. But no, instead of listening, his hand shoots across the table and grabs my wrist.
"Don't touch me," I say, trying to pull away. His grip tightens, fingers digging into my skin hard enough to bruise.
"Or what?" He’s leaning across the table now, his breath hot and sour with alcohol. "You gonna call for help? Nobody in here gives a shit, sweetheart. Nobody's gonna save you."
How wrong he is, because one second he is gripping my wrist, leering at me with those dead drunk eyes. The next he’s being yanked backward out of the booth, his hand ripped away from mine, and his body hitting the floor with a heavy thudthat makes the whole bar go quiet, leaving just the music for company
And standing over him, dressed all in black, is Dom.
"She said no," Dom says quietly.
The drunk scrambles backward, trying to get to his feet, but Dom is faster. His boot connects with the guy's ribs and I hear the crack even over the jukebox. The drunk man wheezes, curling in on himself, and Dom crouches down beside him. I look around and some people have gone back to their conversations, as others continue to watch but not intervene. I guess this shit happens a lot.
"You don't touch her," he says, his voice so calm it’s terrifying, like a nightmare becoming real life.
"You don't look at her. You don't fucking breathe in her direction. Understand?"
"Fuck you!"
Uh oh, that’s the wrong answer, and is it wrong that I’m quietly thrilled?
Dom's fist connects with the drunk's face and I hear the wet crunch of cartilage breaking. Blood sprays across the sticky floor, dark and grim in the dim light. The drunk tries to fight back, swinging wildly without connecting, but Dom catches his arm and twists it. Another crack followed by a shrill scream.
I should look away and be at least inwardly horrified, disgusted, and maybe even scared. I should call for help, or ask someone to stop him, but I can’t move or even breathe.
I can only watch as Dom systematically destroys this man who touched me. Each punch is controlled and precise. This isn't rage, this is something colder. He’s hurting him because he wants to, because he can. Dom is fucking up this piece of shit because he put his hands on something that doesn't belong to him.
On me.
The drunk's face is a mess of blood and broken bones. His nose is definitely shattered, maybe his jaw too. One eye is already swelling shut and he’s making these sounds that are wet, gurgling noises that might be pleas for help or the sound of someone drowning in their own blood.
Before I can think, Dom grabs him by the hair, yanking his head back and forcing the asshole to look at me.
"Apologize," he demands. The tone of his voice is like pure sex being poured into my soul.
