Page 34 of Alpha's Touch
Reaching for a bottle of vodka on a lower shelf, Preston bent down only to feel a hand brush deliberately across his ass.
That was it. Enough was enough!
Preston straightened, spinning around to finally tell Terry exactly where he could shove his wandering hands.
Whatever words he was about to unleash died in his throat.
Instead of Terry’s smug face, Preston found himself staring at a scene that looked like something from an action movie. Ash, usually so calm and measured, had Terry pinned against the wall, one hand wrapped around the barback’s throat. Terry’s feet dangled several inches off the ground, his face rapidly turning an alarming shade of red.
“You think it’s cute to sexually harass someone in my bar?” Ash asked, his voice deadly quiet. “You think I didn’t catch what you’ve been doing all night?”
A low, rumbling growl emanated from Ash’s chest. A sound Preston had come to recognize as distinctly shifter. Since discovering Zeppelin’s true nature, he’d learned to pick up on these subtle signs: the growls, the heightened territorial behavior, the way their eyes sometimes caught the light at odd angles.
Was Ash a wolf too?
The bar had gone eerily quiet, all eyes on the confrontation. Preston became aware of movement around him as members of the pack materialized from various corners of the room, closing ranks. Quinn appeared at Preston’s side, moving around the counter to stand protectively in front of him.
“I-I was just being friendly,” Terry choked out, clawing ineffectually at Ash’s grip.
“Friendly?” Ash tightened his hold slightly. “Is that what you call it when you put your hands on someone who clearly doesn’t want to be touched?”
Terry’s eyes bulged slightly. “It was just a joke, man.”
“I’m not laughing.” Ash’s growl deepened. “And neither is Preston.”
With a final disgusted look, Ash released his grip, allowing Terry to slide down the wall until his feet touched the floor. The barback gasped for air, rubbing at his throat.
“Apologize to Preston,” Ash commanded. “Now.”
Terry turned toward Preston, his expression a mixture of fear and resentment. “Sorry,” he muttered, not meeting Preston's eyes.
“Preston,” Ash said, never taking his eyes off Terry, “you don’t have to accept his apology. That’s entirely up to you.”
All eyes in the bar turned to Preston, who suddenly felt very much on the spot. Part of him wanted to tell Terry exactly where he could shove his half-assed apology, but causing more of a scene wouldn’t help anyone.
He could recognize a predator instantly now thanks to Antonio. Not the kind like wolves, but the type who targeted those they perceived as easy victims. Even if Terry promised to behave, Preston wouldn’t trust him. Men like Terry and Antonio never stopped. They simply searched for another victim to satisfy their twisted desires.
“Whatever,” Preston said with a shrug, trying to appear more nonchalant than he felt. “Just keep your hands to yourself in the future.”
“There won’t be a future,” Ash replied coldly. “You’re fired, Terry. Get your shit and get out of my fucking bar. Now.”
Terry’s face contorted with anger. “You can’t—”
Ash cut him off. “I just did. Out. Before I throw you out.”
For a tense moment, Terry looked like he might argue further, but a quick glance around at the pack members surrounding him seemed to change his mind. With a final glare at Preston, he stalked toward the back room, presumably to collect his belongings.
As Terry disappeared, the tension in the room gradually dissipated. Conversations resumed, though noticeably more subdued than before. The pack members drifted back to their tables, though Preston noticed they positioned themselves strategically around the room, eyes occasionally flicking toward the back hallway where Terry would eventually emerge.
Quinn turned to face Preston, concern evident in his expression. “You okay?”
“Yeah.” Preston nodded, surprised to find it was mostly true. “Just another day in the exciting life of a small-town bartender, right? Broken glasses, spilled drinks, and the occasional workplace-harassment situation. Really keeps things interesting.”
Quinn’s mouth quirked up at one corner. “You’ve got a weird definition of interesting.”
“One of my many charms,” Preston replied, already turning back to the waiting customers, slightly shaken but still composed. “Now, who ordered the Long Island?”
Within minutes, the bar had returned to its previous rhythm. Preston fell back into the routine of mixing drinks and making small talk, grateful for the normalcy after such an unnerving confrontation.
