“But—” I argue, my leg kicking out.
“No.” His eyes flash, telling me to tread lightly. He sets me upright again, takes two steps forward, and grabs the asshole’s shoulder. “Chasing after drunk girls is a dick move, creep.”
The guy’s face slips into terror and embarrassment. He trips over his feet as Tristan pushes him backward.
“You, come here,” he orders the drunk girl. She’s clearly pissed because she has no survival instincts telling her not to approach the grumpy man.
Tristan catches a cab, opening the door.
“But I don’t have. . .” the girl says, confused.
“You’ll thank me later.” He slams the door shut, the cab speeding off.
And then it’s just him and me on the curb.
I take a step back.
“Have a good night, Isolde?”
It’s really unfair that he’s still wearing such a fitted suit. It makes my stomach swoop despite noting how his sharp jawline keeps spasming.
I’m not in the mood to be told off. I was doing a good thing. Killing a pervert.
“I was handling that.”
He grabs my arm, tugging me into a stinking alleyway, steam and the night’s hot air stinging my face.
I wrench my arm back, loosening his hold. Except he merely steps forward, boxing me in between his chest and a brick wall.
“Care to explain why the fuck you decided to go chase after that man?” His body is so tight, I think he might snap.
“That guy was an asshole.”
“You are supposed to be keeping a low profile, Isolde!”
“Do this, do that!” I childishly push back. I’m dimly aware that I’ve had much more to drink than I first thought. “Fuck off, mate. If I want to keep the streets safe, I’ll kill whatever bastard goes around creeping on women at night.”
“Isolde!” he snaps.
“Nah, I’m not taking shit from the Ghost right now. No, thank you.”
His knee shoves between my legs before I’ve even finished.My breathing is a lot more ragged the closer he pushes his chest into mine.
“Is there a reason you’re in a mood?” He grabs my arms and pins them to the wall. “Did something happen, Isolde?”
“I’ve decided I’m tired of having a bodyguard.”
He chuckles, the noise deep and rumbly. “Poor Izzy baby.”
“Don’t mock me. And don’t call me that.”
“Baby?”
“Izzy.” My skin heats. The pet name makes me melt, but I also don’t like how it sounds.
“That barista called you that.”
“Yeah, well, he’s just a barista, isn’t he?” I tug at my hands, but he only tightens his hold. His knee spreads my legs further, and I can’t help a whimper. I’m suddenly not interested in putting up a fight. “If you’re going to do that, you might as well fuck me.”
