Seeing Red
Red.
It’s all I see when I spot his fucking hand on her throat.
Not the lights. Not the crowd. Not even the cowboy hat tumbling off the smug asshole's head as I grab him by the collar and slam him into the nearest post hard enough to rattle the walls.
Georgia.
My Georgia.
He stumbles, gasping, hands digging at my fist like the little bitch he is. His face is red and mottled, but I can’t see past the haze settling in around me, coating my world in a burning glow.
“What the fuck, man?”
“You ever touch her again, and I’ll decorate this floor with your goddamn teeth,” I snarl, body vibrating.
He shoves back, but I barely move. “She liked it rough—just playing hard—”
Crack.
My fist hits his face so hard it echoes. He drops like a sack of shit, catching himself against a barstool, blood blooming beneath his nose.
“You wanna finish that sentence?” I roar, stepping over him. “Go ahead. Try me, motherfucker.”
I can sense Wild on my right, Griff on my left, and I vaguely realize the bar’s gone silent, but all I see ishim.
Him in her face.
Her pushing him away.
His hands on her throat.
Her. Throat.
His eyes are wild now, but he’s stupid. Stupid enough to swing. I duck and slam my forearm into his gut, driving him back into the table. Bottles crash to the floor. Chairs scatter. Someone screams.
Doesn’t matter.
He grabs my shirt, tries to yank me down—but I twist, lift him by the collar again, and slam him face-first into the bar, holding him there.
“You don’t talk to her. You don’t look at her. You don’t even fucking breathe in her direction,” I hiss, pressing him down, nose mashed against the wood, blood smearing across the grain. “You understand me?”
And because he’s got a death wish, he keeps running his fuckin’ mouth.
“She’s just—”
I drag him back by the shirt and punch him again.
Harder.
This time, he slumps, dazed and sputtering on the floor.
“She’s justmine,” I snap.
“Kade!” someone yells behind me. “You’re gonna kill him!”
Good.
