Page 17 of Brutal Obsession

There’s drunk Steve, just about to grab me, his outstretched hand frozen in the air between us.

Thick, strong fingers clamp around Steve’s wrist.

Those fingers belong to a man seated at a two-top to my left. He sits with his back to me, but even from that view, I can tell the guy’s powerfully built, with well-defined muscles.

When he stands, he towers over me by a whole head and a half. Broad shoulders. A well-sculpted torso in perfect brawny proportion. Thick quads and a tight ass.

His long legs protrude from a pair of patterned board shorts, showing off sinewy calves. I don’t know what it is about muscular calves on a guy that do it for me, but damn, do they ever.

My skin tingles with awareness. Something about this stranger ignites the kind of instant attraction I’ve only experienced in romance novels.

“Who are you?” Steve attempts to yank his arm back, but the other man refuses to give an inch.

I can’t see the guy’s face, only loose, dark curls cropped short under a baseball cap and the smooth column of his neck, accentuated by tendons and veins. He tightens his grip, then wrenches Steve’s arm sideways and slams it down onto a still-sizzling hot rock we serve our premium steaks on.

Steve releases a feral scream of pain as the hot plate scalds his pale arm, permeating the air with the acrid scent of burningskin and hair. After a few more panicked cries, Mystery Man releases him.

Staggering away, Steve cradles his arm. A pair of men jump up from his table, a thick guy with a goatee and a slender one right behind him.

“What the fuck is your problem?” Almost frothing at the mouth, Goatee Guy spits the words at the stranger. “I could have you arrested for this.”

Mystery Man doesn’t flinch.

The weight of Goatee Guy’s stare hits me like water to the face. He stalks my way and grabs me roughly by the shoulder.

“You work here, so quit standing around and get your ass in gear! This is bullshit! You’d better do something quick or else?—”

With a low growl, Mystery Man decks Goatee Guy in the face with his massive fist.

Gasps echo around the patio. Patrons leap out of their seats. Pedestrians pull out smartphones to record.

I stifle the urge to run and hide.

This is bad. And it could easily get worse.

Mystery Man needs to stop before someone calls the cops. I cannotbe involved in anything connected to the police. If word of me reaches my family, I can kiss my new life goodbye.

His actions should have killed my attraction. Instead, heat pulses through my veins.

I blame my upbringing. In mafia families, violence is a way of life. We value men who can take care of themselves and defend others.

This shouldn’t turn me on. I’m supposed to be letting go of the old me.

The stranger elbows the slender guy in the face, sending him scrabbling back. By the waterfall of blood gushing down the front of his t-shirt, I’d guess he broke his nose.

Just who the hell is this guy?

Even with a torrential nosebleed, the slender dude charges Mystery Man a second time. As if he choreographed the move ahead of time, my defender grabs both men by their skulls and slaps them together like coconuts, hard enough to concuss them both.

He cocks his head in a predatory manner, and the movement pings something in the back of my mind. Silently, I urge him to shift so I can see his face. If not for his swift and violent intervention, my ass would’ve become Drunk Steve’s squeeze toy.

Though…I wouldn’t complain if Mystery Man copped a feel or two. Despite how certain types of violence churn my stomach, I can’t ignore a man who’d bloody his knuckles for me.

My memory pings again, dredging up images of that one, previous time in my life a man punched someone to defend me.

Alarm bells clang in my mind as the stranger tugs the cap off his head and starts to turn my way.

When his face finally registers, my brain flatlines. Sharp, metallic surprise slashes through me like a machete.

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