Page 188 of His Pretty Little Duet

"I will protect you."

"I will choose you."

"You have to trust me."

Don't feel!

Rage like pure evil boils through my veins, red hot lava, burning up everything rational as it surges into my muscles, feeding them with volatile need. Need to hurt. Need to fight. All the "don't feel," orders and lessons in remaining unreadable, in control, in being the wolf, the heir, the District Mayor, the family man, the controlled man?—

I don’t fucking care.

I. Fucking. Snap.

Growling as tears flood my eyes, their presence creeping dark pools of hatred across my vision, backing me into a corner of near volatility and vulnerability and—Fuck!

Someone touches my shoulder and when I whirl around, they punch my wrist, knocking the gun from my grasp. I cut my fist through the air, throwing a faceless person backwards.

There are soldiers all around me now, blurred shadows in my peripherals that want the calm Clay Butcher. The reliable one. He's not here—I don't fucking care.

They let her leave.

They had one damn job!

I roar, "You fuckers let her out of your sight!" I charge a body, jabbing quickly. Movement behind me jolts my attention. Ducking, I spin low and punch a solid wall of muscles three times until it falls away.

Someone else grabs my arms to stop me, and I still. Straighten. Taller than the guard now wincing, I use my weight and drop my fist hard into his face. Another soldier at my flank attempts to lock my arms behind me, to control me.

Who gave that order?

I growl and fight back.

Hearing my anger.

In my head.

But nothing fills my ears.

The fuckers get a grip on me. Three soldiers bracing my arms behind my back while others shift around in front of me. I can barely see them, the who, not important.

Bucking and gyrating as another body fights to restrain me, I tense, flex my muscles, and throw the fuckers forward. They fall into a pile ahead of me. I'm a fucking animal right now. Bared teeth.

Deaf.

Blind. Rage.

Suddenly, pitch-black coats my irises, and I fall forward on my knees, a hard knock to the back of my head stealing the strength and sight from me.

I shake the hazy dark from my vision, slowly regaining a grainy view of the parking lot.

Growling at the gravel, I try to push up with my hands, but I’m kicked in the side, the boot of someone throwing me over.

I'll kill them.

I roll onto my back as fuckers circle me, and one face comes into view. I should have known.

Only one man can control his fist, the meticulous placement, the precision of pressure, the exact amount of both needed to render a man immobile.

Luca Butcher.

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