Page 91 of When the Storm Breaks
The room freezes.
Music still pounds. Voices still rise and fall. But there’s a split second where the air turns razor-sharp—poised on the edge of something dangerous.
I think I’m going to be sick.
My wide eyes follow the bloodied fist back to its owner.
“Haiyden!”
My voice breaks, somewhere between a gasp and a scolding breath.
But he doesn’t acknowledge me.
His chest heaves, fists still clenched at his sides. His focus stayslocked on the man, on the way he staggers, dazed and swearing under his breath.
Haiyden radiates something lethal. Something barely restrained. Like the only thing holding him back is me.
“I think she’s good without the company,” he says, voice low and threatening.
The man mumbles something, but I don’t hear it.
I’m too caught up in the way Haiyden looks at me now—his eyes burning with something dark.
Something that makes my pulse climb.
Before I can process it, he’s moving.
His fingers curl around my wrist, grip unrelenting as he pulls me from my seat and leads me toward the back hallway. He doesn’t pause. Doesn’t look back. His touch is firm and possessive, like he can’t stand to let go.
The noise of the bar fades behind us. Tension weaves between us like something tangible, something that crackles and burns.
Heat coils low in my stomach, anticipation licking at the edges of every thought.
And the moment we step inside the office, everything changes.
The door slams shut behind us, sealing us in silence. The air is charged, thick with unspoken words and something far more dangerous.
Haiyden releases me, stepping toward the center of the room before turning back. His eyes are storm-dark, his chest rising and falling with barely contained energy—like he’s fighting something violent.
Something primal.
Like he’s fightingme.
“What the fuck were you thinking,” he growls, voice raw, “letting him put his hands on you?”
I blink, thrown by the accusation. Heat flares through me—and not the good kind.
“What the hell is your problem?” My shock hardens into something sharp. “I didn’tlet himdo anything.”
“You’re my problem, Calla.”
His voice drops, rough with restraint.
“The fact that I’ve been wondering since day one what those stupid pastries would taste like if I licked them off your lips? That’s a problem.”
Step.
“The fact that I can still smell your shampoo on my pillow? That’s a problem.”
