Page 126 of Look, Don't Touch

Then I stop cold.

Blood. I can’t handle blood.

A rage-filled, desperate sound that some might classify as a yell scrapes up my throat. It’s met with another sound, more intense than my own.

The weight and pressure are ripped from me, tugging at my most intimate parts and throwing me off balance. My arms flail in search of anything to keep me upright. The room tilts, while the piece of shit who’d grabbed me sails through the air. His feet glide across the ether horizontally, following the rest of him.

Sure, solid arms wrap carefully around my shoulders and waist. The person absorbs me into their chest, making this the second time in as many minutes that I’ve almost eaten marble.

“Hailey?” The voice is soft and sweet and familiar. “Look at me.”

I blink up into Hotaru’s pretty eyes while the world still spins a bit. I’m happy to see him but so confused.

Where’s—

A grunt severs my thoughts.

My head jerks toward the sound of one of Manhattan’s richest pervs hitting the floor and sliding across it like roadkill. Arlo snaps the front of his tux jacket, smoothing out the ruffles that tossing a man across the room apparently caused. He stalks forward with slow, steady strides, stalking his prey.

The man has only a second to try to scuttle away. His inebriated state only allows him to crawl on his ass and greasy palms. Eyes like googly toys try to focus on the approaching storm.

“Hailey, look at me,” Hota orders, this time with a little more bass in his voice. “You don’t want to see this.”

I can’t make myself obey.

My gaze is drawn to the impetus that is Arlo. I’ve never seen such focused rage. No, that’s not true. I have. Very acutely and up close. I’ve just never seen it on my lover’s face. Not in the set of his shoulders. Not in the cut of his jaw. Not in the depths of his eyes.

Arlo grabs the piece of shit by the elaborate bowtie around his neck. He heaves the man off the floor, making his feet come up higher than the ground for a second before he stands on wobbly legs.

Nearly a thousand people are in the room, but I only hear Arlo’s caustic snarl. “Do not touch what doesn’t belong to you.”

The fist that Arlo shoots forward, I swear, materialized fully cocked in midair. In a blink, it gathers unfathomable speed and rams into the perv’s jaw. His head snaps back and to the side with a deafening crack.

Blood sprays wide in a gruesome arch. It spatters over the dance floor. It peppers an older gentleman’s tux. It violates the cheek and light blond hair of a young woman. Her scream burrows deep. The sights excavate. Long hidden memories are uncovered in an instant, caught under the glaring light of the elaborate ballroom.

The man hits the floor like a…like a dead body. Blood seeps from his nose and mouth.

Bile rises, burning its way up my throat.

Arlo reaches for the man once more.

I slap at Hota’s grip. Tears sting my eyes. The second he releases me, I collapse onto all fours and heave.

What little I’d managed to eat before the doors opened and what little champagne I’d toasted with Arlo and his friends spread onto the marble between my shaking hands. My stomach convulses. This time, when I heave, nothing comes up except spittle and the dregs of my self-control.

Tears make the mess a disgusting blur.

Hota rattles off some rapid-fire Japanese.

Then the quiet turns to mayhem. People talk loudly. Women scream. A man standing close by gags. Footsteps echo off the cold, hard floor.

The security and EMS I’ve had on-site for the past three years, that I never expected to have to actually use, rush through the frantic crowd.

Hota crouches low beside me.

I shove him away. I don’t want anyone to touch me. I don’t want anyone to see me. I don’t want to be here. So vulnerable. So broken. So exposed.

I’m about to kill a man for the second time in my life…and I don’t feel an ounce of regret this time either. He’s a limp noodle in my grip. I love it. The beast inside me beats his chest at the piss-poor excuse for a man.

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