Page 22 of Desperate Actions

Junior falls silent for a beat.

Then, quietly, he says, “Do any of us?”

And I don’t know if he means me or him.

Maybe it doesn’t matter.

Because he’s right.

I glance back at Aella, trying to push the whole conversation from my mind, but then I notice something.

Someone—or two someones, rather.

Two greasy-haired motherfuckers slithering up to Aella and Leanna at the bar.

Frowning, I track the way one of them leans too close to Aella, his body angling to block her in.

Then I seeit.

The flash of movement. The way his hand hovers too close to her drink, something small slipping into the glass, dissolving almost instantly.

My blood goes cold.

My vision tunnels.

“Fuck,” I growl, already moving.

“I saw it,” Junior mutters, his tone sharp, clipped, controlled—the voice of a man who knows how to handle a threat.

He’s already talking into his comm.

But I don’t wait.

Because the bastard is lifting the glass to her mouth—smiling, coaxing, trying to get her to drink it.

Aella frowns, turns her head, shakes it off.

But the guy persists.

Then he gets angry.

His expression changes, the easy charm slipping, his grip tightening around the glass like he’s about to force her.

He never gets the chance.

I’m there in an instant, my hand fisting the back of his collar, ripping him from her space.

Then—slam.

His face meets the bar, hard enough to make the glasses rattle and to draw eyes, but I don’t fucking care.

Aella gasps.

The girls squeal.

But I’m already turning to her, my focus narrowed on only her even as I squeeze this prick’s neck harder.

“You okay?” I ask, my voice rough, guttural.

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