Page 63 of Wicked Ruin

He stares. “A what?”

“Werewolf romance. They turn into wolves. They're strong and powerful and—” I pause. “It’s, uh, kinky.”

He makes a strangled sort of noise. “Kinky. Werewolves.”

“Says the man who introduced me to the world of kink.” I reach across the counter because they've just put our order up, and the sight of that gelato does something genuinely emotional to me. My stomach growls. This is going to be extraordinary.

“I asked for triple whipped cream,” I say as we take our cups outside.

“Who the fuck asks for triple whipped cream?” a voice says behind us.

I turn. A big guy in a hooded black sweatshirt is looking at me like the question was aimed at me personally.

And Declan goes very, very still. It’s not the way he stills when he’s angry or worried. There’s a difference, and I don’t know why. His hand found my elbow before I’d even turned around, like he already knew what was behind us.

Oh no.

He stands to his full height, which is usually enough. Whoever it is usually clocks who they're dealing with and finds somewhere else to be.

“Look at her. Acting like a fucking child,” the guy says to his mate.

What the hell?

Declan steps in front of me, but he doesn’t look at the man’s face. His eyes are moving, slow, deliberate, as if he already knows who this is and where this is going.

“Watch your fucking mouth.” His voice is a low, even growl. “Don't talk to her that way.”

“Yeah?” The man squares up. “You gonna do something about it?”

Oh no. Oh god. Does this man not know who he's talking to?

Declan's eyes go flat and cold in that particular way that means all the warmth in him has been set aside for later.

“I don't want to get into this tonight, brother, not here,” he says. “Walk away now. I won't repeat myself.”

I have never heard him talk to anyone like that before, as if it isn't a threat but a courtesy. Like he's doing the man a favor by warning him at all.

“Nah,” the guy says, getting in Declan's face. “Not really in the mood.”

No, no, no, no.

“Declan, leave it,” I whisper, because my nerves are frayed and this isn't going to end well, even though I know there’s no way he’s going to walk away and leave it.

“Declan?” The man says it flat, not a question. He knows him.

That's when I see them.

Four men. Not close—positioned deliberately, spread across the street and at the mouth of the alley opposite, far enough back that running wouldn't help. Far enough back that there's nowhere to go. One behind a parked van. One in a doorway. Two more materializing from between cars, unhurried, like they've been waiting all evening. Weapons already raised.

This was never a chance encounter. He knew that man. I don’t know how I know that, but I do.

This is no accident.

“Leave him alone!” I shout, because I don't know what else to do.

Declan moves before I finish the sentence. He grabs the edge of the bistro table and flips it—solid iron top, scraping concrete—and shoves me behind it in one motion, using his own body to finish the job. Then he wheels and takes the big man down hard, fast, no ceremony, and the crack of it turns my stomach.

I'm on the ground behind the table, my phone in my shaking hands, and I can't remember picking it up.