Page 8 of Ruined By Protection
"She's not interested in your conversation." Matteo's voice is eerily calm but the iciness in his eyes makes my skin prickle. "And she's with me."
The drunk snorts. "Doesn't look like it. Find your own piece?—"
He doesn't get to finish. Matteo moves with startling speed, twisting the man's wrist until he screeches and his hold on mebreaks. I stumble back as Matteo forces the drunk's arm behind his back, making him gasp for air.
"I won't repeat myself," Matteo says, his voice still conversational despite the violence in his actions. "The lady is with me. You're going to apologize, then you're going to walk away. Understood?"
The drunk's face contorts with pain. "Fuck you?—"
Matteo applies more pressure and the man's knees buckle. "Wrong answer. Try again."
"Okay! Okay!" The businessman's voice rises in panic. "I'm sorry! Jesus Christ!"
"Not to me." Matteo nods toward me. "To her."
The drunk's eyes meet mine, fear replacing his previous lecherous confidence. "I'm sorry, miss. I was out of line."
Matteo releases him with a slight push. "Now get out of here before I decide an apology isn't enough."
The man stumbles away, clutching his wrist and muttering curses. Matteo watches him until he disappears around the corner of the building.
When he turns back to me, his expression softens. "Are you okay?"
I nod, my heart still racing. "Yeah. Thanks."
"Did he hurt you?"
I shake my head. "Just grabbed me. I'm fine."
CHAPTER 3
Matteo
Iwatch her closely, not fully buying her assurance. The way her arms wrap around herself, how her eyes dart back to where that asshole disappeared—she's rattled, even if she won't admit it.
"You're sure?" I press, stepping closer.
"I'm fine, really." She pushes a strand of honey-blonde hair behind her ear. "Occupational hazard of bartending."
That thought makes something dark twist in my gut. I don't like the idea of men putting their hands on her, drunk or sober.
"Ready for that ride?" I ask, deliberately changing the subject as I consider hunting down every man who's ever disrespected her.
"About that..." She looks up at me with those hazel eyes that caught me from across the bar. "What exactly did you mean by 'a ride'?"
I can't help the smile that tugs at my lips. "You think I was being metaphorical?"
"I don't know what to think about you." Her voice carries a hint of wariness mixed with curiosity.
"Come on." I gesture toward the parking area. "I'll show you."
She follows me, keeping a careful distance that I respect. We round the corner to where I've parked and her eyebrows shoot up.
"That's yours?" She points at the gleaming Harley Davidson Road King, its chrome catching the yellow glow of the parking lot lights.
"Rental, actually. Only thing Texans ride, apparently."
Her laugh hits me like a shot of the finest whiskey—warm, intoxicating, and leaving me wanting more. It's genuine, not the polite chuckle she gives customers at the bar.
