Page 154 of Love Me Stalk Me
His zipper is down.
His hand is on her thigh.
His face snaps up in shock.
And that's when I fucking lose it.
I grab him by the collar of his stupid fucking Oxford, wrenching him off her with a force that nearly dislocates his shoulder. He lets out a choked noise, stumbling, hands flailing. The fabric of his designer shirt tears under my grip.
I don't give him time to react. I don't give him time to beg, or run, or fucking breathe.
I swing.
My fist connects with his face, hard and fast, the sickening crunch of cartilage and bone splitting through the air. The impact sends shock waves up my arm.
His head snaps back.
He crashes to the floor, limp. A tooth skitters across the carpet.
Unconscious.
One punch.
That's all it takes. Because I know what I'm doing. Because I could have killed him. The thought crosses my mind like a darktemptation. The world might be better without men like him in it. Izzy would never have to fear him again.
But I know—I know—that if I do, she'll blame herself.
Even if she doesn't say it out loud. Even if she never admits it. Her mind will twist things, warp the truth, find a way to tell herself that she had a part to play in his death. That this was her fault. And then she'll never be free of him. Not really.
So no.
I don't kill him.
I just make sure that when he wakes up, he's going to be missing his two front teeth. The implants will be painful and cost a fortune. Serves him right.
I take a slow breath, my pulse still raging. The taste of adrenaline is metallic on my tongue.
And then I turn to Izzy.
She's still unconscious, her body limp on the floor, hair fanned out beneath her like she just laid down for a nap instead of getting fucking attacked. I'm on my knees before I even realize I moved, my hands hovering over her, searching.
Checking for injuries.
Checking for...worse.
Her blouse is ripped at the front, exposing the smooth curve of her shoulder. Bruises are already starting to form along her collarbone, the side of her throat. The imprint of Evan's fingers lingers there. Purple marks imprinted like violent flowers.
My hands tighten into fists so hard my knuckles crack.
I wrestle my rage back into its cage, forcing myself to stay composed. She needs me clear-headed now—not consumed by vengeful thoughts.
I push the fabric of her skirt down. Her panties—thank God, her panties are still on. Evan hadn't gotten that far.
If I had been even a second later?—
I shove the thought down, bury it beneath the cold, methodical logic I need right now.
She's breathing. That's what matters.
