Page 20 of Broken Pact

He doesn’t even flinch, his eyes narrowed into slits. “I saw her first.” He advances on us, and I throw an arm out, locking my elbow so he can’t get any closer to us.

“Back off.”

His chest pushes against my palm, but all my attention zeroes in on the way the woman who haunts my dreams is pressed against me. Specifically, that perfect fucking ass. Is she . . . grinding against my dick?

Surely not. Coraline Carter wouldn’t be so bold as to put the fucking moves on me in a situation like this, right?

It takes more effort than I thought it would to pull my focus away. But I’m a fucking magician and do it, just in time to hear the gnat of a man utter his final words.

“. . . fucking cunt.”

Alright, so this is how he wants to play it? Fucking fine by me. Makes this so much easier really, because there’s no way in hell I’m gonna give him the fight he’s itching for with my girl between us.

With a quick, fluid motion, I wrap my arm around Coraline’s waist and spin her behind me, using my body as a shield. I keep one hand on the small of her back to steady her before I turn to face the motherfucker and give him what he's desperately asking for.

The knuckles of my left hand split on his teeth, and he falls like a sack of bricks. The crowd around him parts, letting him hit the sticky, dirty floor with a muted thud. A few people glance between me and him, but no one makes a move to help him. So either they saw what went down or they don’t give a fuck.

Either way, it’s done.

I slip her hand into mine and pull her off the crowded floor. I don’t stop until we reach the outer wall of the ballroom. Shadows pool around us, giving the illusion of privacy.

She yanks her hand from mine and whirls around so fast, her hair flies out behind her like some kind of cape. I let my eyes drink her in, devouring the way her chest rises and falls too quickly, the way anger tightens the corners of her eyes and pushes her lips into a pout.

She looks magnificent, like I could blink and instead of a crowded concert hall, we’re in the middle of a battlefield. Never mind that she could’ve handled shit on her own. Coraline Carter calls to me like my very own, personalized siren song. She’s the kind of woman people write about. And I’ve never seen her look as alive as she does right now.

Not even the time I had her underneath me.

“Why did you do that?” she seethes, folding her arms tightly across her chest.

She’s angry. I get it. I would be too if I had to put up with that asshole pawing at my ass all night too. But I can’t help the almost lazy sort of grin that tugs up the corner of my mouth. She’s a fucking hellcat, and I’d be lying if I said I didn’t love to see her all riled up. I don’t even fucking care that she’s directing all her shit to me. I can take it.

I can take anything she throws at me.

I’ll gladly take it if it means I get her attention. It’s fucking juvenile, and sometimes I hate that I can’t stop it—this intense attraction to her.

I arch a brow and leave the smirk curling up my lips. “I think the words you’re looking for are thank you, Jagger.”

She scoffs, dropping her arms to plant her hands on her hips. “And why the hell would I thank you?”

The cropped tank top rides up, exposing more of her midriff. It’s fucking distracting.

I drag my hand across my mouth in a half-assed attempt to cover my amusement. “I mean, I did just rescue you from that douchebag.”

She steps into me, jabbing her index finger against the middle of my chest. She’s growling something at me, but I don’t catch any of it. Her scent wraps around me like a noose. Cherries and vanilla, like some kind of magical dessert. It slides into my nose and travels into my lungs, filling me up. It’s fucking intoxicating.

I thought about asking a therapist friend about this before. This visceral reaction to a scent—to a fucking woman—it doesn’t seem normal.

There was one night I fell down a strange fucking rabbit hole on the internet. Genuinely thought I was losing my mind, maybe some kind of rare condition or something in my brain was wired differently. There wasn’t a conceivable explanation for the way I sort of short-circuit when she’s around. It’s like my brain goes on vacation, severing the neural pathway with a casually tossed peace sign, wishing my body godspeed and good luck.

But all my research showed that it was another phenomenon. One that isn’t cured by a therapist or a psychiatrist or any kind of medical professional.

Love.

What a fucking joke those four letters are.

Me loving anyone seems an unlikely situation. But me loving Coraline Carter and then losing her feels more unimaginable than some rare olfactory condition.

It feels like a cruel twist of fate.

---