Page 4 of Second Draft

Those eyes go wide with recognition when they land on me, and I see it, the spark of lust that she hadn’t been able to hide, despite her attempt.

I give her one of my crooked smiles. The one that usually has girls begging me to fuck them. Her cheeks turn red, and she quickly looks back down at the book in her hand.

A small chuckle rumbles in my throat, because no matter how hard she tries to hide it, I can see she’s into me. I felt it in her body when I’d been on top of her. The heat. The need that radiated off her waves.

But I know what she sees when she looks at me –danger.

It’s not only that I’m big, at six foot four I tower over most men. Or the ink that covers my arms in full sleeves. It’s not even the muscles that bunch and coil with my every movement. It’s the darkness I carry with me, like a black aura, pushing everyone away. Even my own damn brother.

She’s right to be afraid, because in all fairness, she’s too young for me. Too innocent for the things I want to do to her.

Hell, she barely looks old enough to be in this place.

And me? I may only be twenty-eight, but I’m as tainted as they come.

Broken?

No.

My wounds have healed, but not without leaving thick, impenetrable scars on my body and my soul.

I should walk away. But my cock won’t let me. It’s begging me to cross the fifteen feet towards her, and make her mine – at least for tonight.

I’m not the only guy who’s noticed her.

With gritted teeth, I watch as a meathead-looking-dude approaches her, a cocky ass grin on his ugly face. Across the room, a table of rowdy guys yell out a few crude comments, edging him forward.

He leans on the bar in front of her, getting in her personal space.

If it wasn’t there before, it is now. The big fuck off sign plastered on her forehead. But the guy either doesn’t notice or doesn’t care.

Yeah, so not going to happen, buddy. I almost feel sorry for the bastard, until he puts his hands on her.

He reaches out and drags his fingers down her bare arm. It’s a subtle touch, but it stirs the inner caveman inside of me.

Walk away, Carter, I tell myself. No girl is worth the fight. Especially not a bar fight.

But hell, if that overprotective Neanderthal part of my brain doesn’t kick into high gear, muting out all common sense.

The guy is practically mauling her by the time I cross the distance between us.

“Come and have a drink with us,” he slurs, wrapping a meaty arm around her shoulders, and leaning heavily.

There’s fear in her eyes when she places her hands on his chest, trying to push him away. “I’m waiting for–”

“Me,” I growl out, my voice rumbling above the music.

The guy turns in my direction and gives me a look that says he doesn’t believe me, then his eyes widen slightly in recognition.

Fuck. It doesn’t happen very often anymore, but it’s always uncomfortable when it does.

“Oh shit. You’re–”

“Your worst enemy if you don’t get your hands off my girl.” I don’t need him announcing to the whole bar who I am. Or more accurately, who I was.

Carter the Crusher Bennett. New York Rangers second draft pick almost a decade ago. I sent more guys home on a stretcher than any rookie that first year, while placing a giant target on my back doing it.

“Sorry, man. I didn’t realize.” The guy stands abruptly, putting his hands in the air and takes a couple of steps back. But he’s still watching me, and so is Layla.

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