Page 62 of Masks and Mishaps

I’m completely fine.

The best thing I learned from raising three brothers was to pick my battles. I won’t win this one, so it’s my cue to go.

Without a word, I grab Valeria by the hand and practically drag her behind me, hurrying over to the bar where Cora is waiting.

“We need to leave,” I declare, nearly crashing into her and speaking right into her ear.

“I already called Everett,” Cora confirms. “He and Lander are going to be here in fifteen minutes.”

“You’re an angel,” I mutter, but Cora’s eyes aren’t focused on me. They’re fixed on a spot over my shoulder, and I know exactly what she’s looking at. Sure enough, when I turn around, it’s them again—the blond guy and his two cronies. All three are looking at us.

Minutes later, Cora is tracking Lander and Everett’s location while Valeria and I shiver in our coats. Valeria is doing that thing where she inhales through her nostrils, trying to find a place to put her anger when she can’t punch anything. She’s exceptional at it—her version ofI’m completely fine.

But then a big arm loops around me, andI’m so not fucking fine anymore.

“What’s wrong with you?” I blurt out, wrenching the guy’s arm off me.

“Are you mad?” he replies, flashing a half grin I wouldn’t be surprised to see at Hannington-Hale on Monday morning.

“What part of ‘not interested’ do you not understand?” I demand.

“Come on. You can’t blame me for trying. You have to know how pretty you are.” His grin fills his face, extending from one elegant corner to the next, and he reaches for me again. Disgusted, I take an emphatic step back—

—which is impeccably timed. Within seconds of me moving, the asshole goesflying.

“What the fuck.”

He’s lying on the sidewalk a few feet away, sprawled like he got hit by a semi…

…or a six-foot-five investment banker.

Dalton moves quickly, gripping the guy’s shirt collar and tugging him to his feet purely to punch his face. And my god, is it a fuckingpunch. The sound is sickening, like an old jack o’ lantern toppling onto the cold pavement.

The guy careens backwards, stumbling against the wall of the bar and clutching his face with both hands while blood seeps through his fingers. Menacing, Dalton stands over him, shaking out his fist.

After a moment, he exhales and faces me. Our eyes meet under the faint glow of the bar’s exterior lights, and his murderous expression eases before he takes a single large step and closes the gap between us.

His hands immediately go to my cheeks, cupping them with warm palms. Beads of sweat dot his forehead, and his chest heaves with an inhalation.

I have no clue where he came from, but I strongly suspect he ran here—to me.

Dalton’s stare breaks from mine and drifts lower. His hands move with it, pushing aside my hair and parting my coat like he’s checking for signs of damage. They still.

“I bought you this,” he states, studying my little green dress.

All I can do is nod.

“I bought you this,” he continues, voice low, “and he—” Dalton cocks his head to the side. “—touched you while you were wearing it.”

I nod again, slower this time. “Dalton—”

His lips push together, and he fills his chest with air. “What did he fucking touch, Essie?”

I glance to the side at the guy already slumped in a pile. He’s trying to quell the bleeding while his two friends crouch uselessly next to him, and when he sees me watching, he spits in my direction.

Bastard.

“My hips, my stomach,andmy tit,” I inform Dalton without hesitation.

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