What?
“She will not be dancing with you,” Jagger grits out. “In fact, she will not be alone with you. Ever.”
“Worried I’ll steal your girl, Jagger?”
“Worried I’ll end you?” he counters, pushing to his feet like he’s ready to throw down right here. Right now.
My heart jumps in my throat as I stare up at him. The vein in his neck bulges. His eyes are nothing but slits. And his hands are fisted at his sides. Welp. Titas did it. He finally pushed Jagger over the edge. This is bad. This is very bad. But I don’t know what to do.
What can I do?
Titas’s amusement snaps to something darker. More sinister. With his ass still firmly in his seat, he warns, “Careful, boy.” A shiver races down my spine. “You might think this is your world. You might think you have power and control in the facade you’ve built using my money and my name, but if you cause a scene in this moment, you will regret it. Do you understand?”
Okay, so now we’re just openly threatening people. Perfect. I turn to Hawke, then Ford, silently begging them to fix this. To do something. Neither of them move a muscle. But I don’t miss the way their attention shifts from their father to Jagger and back again. Waiting. Anticipating.
They’re waiting for Jagger to take the lead. I’ve seen it a dozen times now, and even though I appreciate their silent camaraderie, there are a lot of people here. Alotof people. And this isn’t one of their Harden Nights in The Drift. These people have cameras and money and connections. The last thing Jagger needs is a public fallout with his father.
Slowly, I stand, tossing my napkin onto the dinner plate before threading my fingers with Jagger’s. By some miracle, he lets me, but his expression stays the same.
“Hey,” I murmur. “Mind if you show me where the bathroom is?”
With a glare that could curdle milk, Jagger gives his father one final look, then turns, taking me with him until we’re out of sight. But even then, it feels impossible to breathe, let alone wrap my head around what the hell just happened in the ballroom.
So that was the infamous Titas Harden. It’s official. I don’t like him.
43
JAGGER
Fucking asshole. It feels like, with one conversation, my dad managed to inject habaneros into my veins. Now I’m left burning from the inside out. I need to get out of here. I need to find some privacy so I can calm the hell down.
There’s probably a dozen bathrooms scattered throughout the building. No doubt, each will have individual locks, a single toilet, and a small sink. Heaven forbid, these pretentious assholes have to piss while someone might be listening.
When I find one, I drag Violet inside and close the door behind us, careful not to slam it. Heaven forbid, I draw attention to us. It’s a good thing she suggested we leave. If she hadn’t, I might’ve killed him with my own two hands, and I’m still not convinced it wouldn’t have been worth it. I feel like I’m vibrating, like I’m strapped up to a nuclear power plant and I might explode if I can’t find a way to disconnect. Letting Violet’s hand go, I turn on the faucet and splash some water on my face in hopes of clearing my mind, though I doubt it‘ll work. I can’t believe I honestly thought he’d be civil for the night. Sure, anytime we’re all in the same room together, shit is tense. But usually, he cares enough about the public’s perception of the Harden name to keep his asshole remarks locked down, savinghis acid tongue for phone calls and family dinners where no one can witness it. But tonight? Tonight, he let it fly, and I can’t believe I brought Violet here and forced her to communicate with the bastard.
Water drips off my nose and chin as I grip the edge of the counter, unable to look at her. “Violet, I’m so sorry,” I mutter.
Get a fucking grip.
I scoop some more water onto my face.
“Hey,” Violet murmurs.
Turning off the faucet, I reach for the towel and dry off. My body feels coiled like a spring. I want to hit something. No, I want to hit my dad. What I wouldn’t give to beat the shit out of the asshole.
“Hey,” Violet repeats. Her touch is gentle, hesitant, as she presses her hand to my back. “Are you okay?”
The feel of her palm manages to snap me from my spiral, but just barely. Breathing in deep through my nose, I let out the breath through my mouth, repeating the process three more times.
Calm. The hell. Down.
“Hey,” she says a third time. This time, it sounds more like a greeting than an attempt to bring me back from the darkness. “There he is,” she teases, running her hand along my spine.
My head falls forward as I hold onto her voice and the gentle brush of her hand. The rhythm. The pressure. The warmth. I’m not in that room anymore. I’m okay.She’sokay. “I’m sorry,” I rasp.
“What? Why?”
“You shouldn’t have had to sit through that bullshit interrogation.”
