Page 14 of Guarded By a Broody Biker

I’m already up, darting across the room on silent feet, positioning myself so I’m behind the door when it swings open. The motion disturbs the air, sending the softest breeze across Jem’s apartment, and when a man steps inside, I don’t need a light on to recognize this guy.

Peter.That’s what she called him, right? The creep from the market. Jem’s sometime ex.

Peter. Peter the prick.

My fingers twitch around my knife handle, and I gust out a long-suffering sigh before setting the blade on top of Jem’s bookcase. Won’t be needing that—and I won’t be the reason my girl has to scrub blood out of her floor.

The soft noise makes Peter spin around to face me, but he’s too slow in the darkness, his eyes not yet adjusted to the gloom. It’s the easiest thing in the world to grip him by the throat and hoist him into the air, kicking and struggling, holding him away from the bookcase so he doesn’t knock over Jem’s stuff. My hair may be pressed against the ceiling, but there are whole inches of empty air beneath this guy.

“Here we are again.” My tone is pleasant, but my grip is so harsh on his throat that Peter’s eyes bulge. Already, his face is an ugly crimson color, and his kicks are getting wilder, more desperate. He claws at my hand. “And I was so sure we understood each other after our chat earlier. That’s a shame.”

A soft noise drifts over from the bed, followed by the rustle of bed covers. Jem flicks on the lamp on her nightstand, then gapes at the scene in the middle of her rug.

“Sweatshirt,” I grit out, my tone harsher than it should be, but I don’t want Peter the prick to see a single inch of Jem’s bare skin. Not when she’s wearing that skimpy top and those tiny shorts; not when I’m at risk of committing murder. She’smine.

Jem dives for a sweatshirt draped over the end of her bed, shoving it on over her head. I can breathe properly once her body’s swamped in fabric, safely hidden from prying eyes—not that Peter’s in any position to perv. He’s too busy gasping for breath and turning purple.

“He has a key,” I tell Jem, shaking her intruder like the key might jiggle loose. “Did you give him one?”

“N-no.” Jem is bleary-eyed when she swings her legs out of bed, tip-toeing closer. “Of course not. We only went on a few dates, and then I called it off.”

The hem of her sweatshirt hangs halfway down Jem’s bare thighs. It’s still too much skin on show, but it’ll have to do.

“Check his pockets.”

Jem wrinkles her nose, but steps forward and does it, pulling out a sleek leather wallet, an iPhone, a small stack of business cards, and—a small, brassy key.

“Try it.”

Peter smacks at my arm again, trying to break my hold, but it’s useless. He watches, bug-eyed, as Jem crosses to the door and lets herself out of the apartment.

Our breathing is the only sound in the small room—Peter’s gasping, mine steady. The key slides into the lock easily, and the door swings open.

“Oh,” Jem says, clearly shaken as she comes back inside. She stares down at the key in her hand, looking faintly sick. “Oh, god. I knew it.”

“We’ll change the locks tomorrow,” I tell her, wishing more than anything that I could comfort her right now rather than deal with this piece of human garbage. But then again, maybethisishow I comfort her. Right? She was scared, so she came to Spartan Shield Corp. Decision made, I turn to the man dangling in my grip.

“Not that you’ll be coming back,” I say.

Peter tries to shake his head, desperate to agree with me. He’d say anything, do anything, to get me to release his throat.

“And not that you’ll be able to hold a key. Hey man, just wondering: are you right or left handed?”

Peter struggles harder, freaking out, but it was a trick question. I already know, because I watched him come in, the key glinting in his right hand.

“Whoopsie,” I say, breaking his wrist easily. Peter howls, angry tears spilling down his flushed cheeks, but when I hold his face close to mine, he stops thrashing. His panicked heartbeat is so loud in this room.

“You’re never coming near Jem again. Say it.”

He wheezes, the words getting trapped in his crushed throat. I smile, enjoying this way too much.

“Good. You’re going to leave this city and go far, far away. You’re going to start a new life in that faraway place, and you’re never coming back. Not even to visit.”

More gargling. I’d feel guilty if he weren’t such a prick.

“Because you know if I ever see you again—not in this apartment, you understand, or in the market hall, or near Jem, butanywhere—I will kill you and toss your lifeless body in the river. I am not a forgiving man. Tap my arm if you agree.”

Frenzied tapping. Then Peter visibly panics, his eyes flaring wide, because he’s not sure if that was a trick question.

---