Page 50 of Her Name in Red
The guy—some frat boy asshole in a backwards cap and a shirt with Greek letters—smirks, clearly pleased to have gotten a reaction. He's surrounded by three equally douchey-looking friends, all sporting identical smug expressions.
“Just saying, man,” Backwards Cap continues, raising his hands in mock surrender. “Heard she likes it rough. Coach found out the hard way.”
“What the fuck did you just say?” he snarls, moving away from me.
He towers over a scrawny guy in a fraternity sweatshirt. The guy has a deer-in-the-headlights look, suddenly aware he's said something to the wrong person.
“Nothing, man,” Frat Boy stammers, taking a step back. “Just joking around with friends.”
“Say it again,” Riggs challenges, his voice dangerously quiet. His hands are clenched into fists at his sides, knuckles white with tension. “Say it to my face.”
“I just said what everyone knows,” Frat Boy says, finding a shred of courage now that he has an audience. His eyes dart to me, then back to Riggs. “She's a fucking murderer. Bloody Mary. Killed Coach and somehow walked away?—”
Riggs' fist connects with Frat Boy's face before I can even blink. The sound is sickening—a wet crunch of knuckles against cartilage. Frat Boy crumples like he's made of wet cardboard, blood spurting from his nose as he hits the ground.
Well, okay then, golden boy. A little subtly would be better, but ya know men are stupid.
The guy's friends scatter like roaches when the light comes on, backing away with their hands up, suddenly very interested in being anywhere but here. So much for brotherhood.
“Come on,bro,” Riggs growls, looming over the fallen frat boy who's now cradling his face, blood seeping between his fingers. “You had a lot to say a minute ago.”
The quad has gone silent, dozens of students frozen in place, watching the scene unfold with wide eyes and open mouths. Someone's filming with their phone. Great. Just fucking fantastic.
“Riggs,” I hiss, tugging harder at his arm. “Let's go. Now.”
He doesn't budge, his gaze still fixed on the bleeding mess at his feet. “Apologize to her,” he demands.
Frat Boy looks up, his eyes watering, blood smeared across his chin. “Fuck you,” he spits, but his voice wavers.
I see the shift in Riggs' body language—the slight adjustment of his weight, the flex of his shoulder—and know he's about to throw another punch. This time I step between them, my back to Frat Boy, my hands pressing against Riggs' chest.
“Stop,” I say, my voice low and steady. “That's enough.”
His eyes meet mine, and for a second, I don't recognize them. They're darker, wilder—filled with a rage that makes my breath catch.
“He doesn't get to talk about you like that,” Riggs says, his voice rough. His heart pounds beneath my palm, a rapid beat full of adrenaline.
“This isn't your fight,” I counter, pressing harder against his chest.
“The hell it isn't.”
Chapter 18
Maren
Idrag Riggs away from the bleeding frat boy, my fingers digging into his arm hard. My pulse crashes in my ears, drowning out the whispers that follow us across the quad. Fucking great. As if I needed more attention.
“Let go,” Riggs growls, but doesn't actually try to shake me off.
“Not until we're away from this shitshow,” I mutter, steering him toward student parking. The lot is a maze of beat-up Hondas and fancy SUVs bought with daddy's money. I weave through them, putting as much distance between us and the scene as possible.
When we're safely away from all the prying fucking eyes, I finally release him. My hand feels empty without his solid muscle beneath it, which is exactly the kind of thought I need to squash immediately.
“What the actual fuck was that?” I demand, spinning to face him.
Riggs rolls his shoulders, flexing his hand. His knuckles are already starting to swell, skin split across two of them. There's a smear of the frat boy's blood on his wrist.
“Guy needed his teeth rearranged,” he says simply, like he's commenting on the weather. His eyes are still dark, pupils blown wide with lingering adrenaline.
