No one moves like that.
Like a fucking weapon wrapped in silk—deceptive, dangerous.
And he’s not even winded.
Like this is just business as usual.
Just another Tuesday for the monster I’m supposed to fear?—
But somehow want. Badly.
One of them stumbles up—bruised and stupid enough to try again.
Then the idiot lunges—right at me.
My breath catches. I brace.
But he never touches me.
My dark angel’s already there—fist tangled in his hair, yanking his head back with effortless precision. His voice is low and sharp. “Touch her and I'll make sure they never find all the pieces.”
“Fuck you,” the man spits.
“Wrong answer.”
Fist lands hard in the gut, solid and final. The body folds, collapsing like it was never meant to stand.
A soft laugh, genuinely amused. Erotic in how amused he sounds breaking bones.
Silence follows.
He turns to me, the edge still sharp, but his eyes soften—heavy, searching.
No, I’m ruined.
But my mouth says: “Still vertical. That’s a win.”
A slow, dangerous smile curves his mouth. “That’ll do.”
Up close, the ruin is worse. A scar slicing his temple, ink snaking down his throat, and the faintest trace of cologne—bergamot, cedar, and something darker. Something that whispers of expensive sins and midnight confessions.
And damn if it doesn’t work.
Heat floods my veins.
My brain scrambles.
Perfect. My ovaries are slow-clapping while the rest of me wants to run.
“You’re about to drop,” he murmurs, eyes narrowing as they rake me. “The martinis didn’t help.”
I blink, pulse fluttering. “You were watching me?”
His eyes linger—on my mouth, my throat, the bruised space between breaths.
“Long enough to know you’re running from something,” he says, voice low and slow, like he's savoring the shape of me with every word.
“And long enough to know… you don’t break easy.”
