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The words land hard—and ugly.
I bristle. My jaw tightens because I know he’s right, and I still want to argue. Defend myself, demand I’m always thinking of Dallas, but I can’t because he’s right and I hate that he’s right.
I wasn’t thinking of anyone when I launched myself across the bar at her, just the heat behind my ribs and the way it felt to finally let it out.
Mercy’s shout trails behind us fiercely, “That’s not fair Henry! Give her some fucking credit! She could have done a lot worse.”
Any other time I would have stopped to acknowledge the way the little manwhore had my back, but his words barely register.
The noise around us blurs—the clinking glasses, the murmurs, the distant laughter—but all I can feel is the cold bite of Henry’s hand locking onto my arm, pulling me closer to the storm waiting just beyond the door. My skin prickles under his grip, the tension in the air thick enough to choke on.
“Stop fucking dragging me around like a rag doll!” I snap, voice sharp and trembling as soon as we hit the cold night air. I yank my arm free, breath catching in my throat as I wrestle to break loose from his relentless hold.
Henry doesn’t turn around. His broad back is tense, shoulders squared like a bull ready to charge, chest rising and falling with ragged breaths. His hair stands on end, wild and unruly, like the anger thrumming beneath his skin. Without looking at me, he points toward his SUV with a hard edge. “Get in the fucking car.”
I cross my arms tight over my chest, digging my heels into the cracked pavement, stubborn and fierce. “And be manhandled some more? No fucking thank you.” My voice is cold, defiant, but underneath it all, a storm of frustration and fear rages—torn between wanting to fight and wanting to surrender.
He spins on me in a heartbeat, the suddenness of it snatching the air right from my lungs.
Then—impact.
My back slams into the SUV, metal unforgiving and cold. The jolt travels up my spine, blooming sharp and immediate across my ribs.
His body crowds mine.
His breath is hot against my cheek, his chest barely an inch from mine, the space between us suddenly charged, tight, suffocating. I freeze—just for a second. My heart kicks hard against my ribs, as if it doesn’t know whether to brace for a kiss or a blow. Then I remember who’s standing before me and I damn near laugh at the absurd thought.
He might throw me up against a wall, sure. Might press in close until I can feel every inch of him, until my breath catches and my knees start to give. Might pin my wrists over my head, mouth dragging down my throat just to remind me who’s really in control.
Might make me beg—without ever saying a word.
But hurt me?
Not a fucking chance.
Because that’s the thing about Henry Wilder, he’s brutal, but never cruel.
“Louisiana, I’m not asking,” he growls, voice low and dangerous, like a predator warning its prey.
The words rumble through me. Not just in my ears—but in my bones.
I should be afraid. Maybe I am, a little. But it’s not clean fear—it’s tangled up with heat, with anger, with a sick, aching need to push back just to see how far he’ll go.
I tilt my head forward, refusing to shrink. Closing the distance until our noses nearly brush, my breath steady even as my pulse riots beneath my skin.
“I said no,” I whisper, voice like steel under strain.
The tension between us thickens, suffocating and electric.
Suddenly, without warning, his hand slaps the side of his SUV right beside my head. The metal rings out beneath his palm, the sound sharp and hollow, echoing into the night.
“I just spent the last hour panicked out of my fucking mind,” he says, voice low but shaking at the edges. “Then I get here and it’s not just that your mother’s back in town—it’s you, going full God damn Rambo on her.”
He’s breathing hard, jaw locked. His eyes stay fixed on mine, too wild to be cold.
“Did you even see the pistol?” he goes on, his voice a little louder now. “Tucked into the back of her pants. Did you even fucking think, Louisiana?”
The word hits like a fist to the sternum—pistol.
