Page 87 of Beautiful Enemy

This isn’t happening.

Do something.

No one answers my silent plea.

The man hulks closer, his body looming large and threatening.

Do something!

This time, I’m screaming at myself.

When he comes at me, I dig my fingernails into his neck. He bellows, his hand flying to the wounds.

They’re not deep enough to keep him occupied long, and he’s about to land another blow when there’s motion at the curtains.

The next second, my attacker is gone.

Harrison drags the man out of the curtains, tossing him against the front row of the crowd. The patrons stare as the owner of the club pulls back a fist and looses it on the man before him.

The man lurches, listing as if he’s been drinking before straightening with a cruel grin. “Is that it?”

It’s his opponent’s turn to land a punch, leaving a streak of blood across Harrison’s cheek. My heart hammers until I realize it’s the other man’s. From where he was covering his neck.

Harrison barely stumbles before straightening. Even without the tic in his jaw, the heavy breathing, the icy fire in Harrison’s eyes would be terrifying.

He grabs the other man by the collar, dragging him close to whisper something I can’t make out. Then Harrison hits him again, hard enough the man topples.

Harrison shakes out his hand, his grim expression cast in the semidarkness of the club.

“Get him the fuck out of here, or you’ll never work again,” he bites out to security.

Across the crowd, Leni runs interference, trying to get things back to normal despite the fight that broke out.

My back hits a speaker, and I shift up onto it, my hands curling into my stomach. The sight of blood under my fingernails makes my stomach lurch.

I didn’t feel the full effects of fear when everything was happening so fast, but now I do.

I haven’t felt that fear in a decade, but it’s fresh. A forgotten record pulled out of a box and set beneath a needle to play as fully and crisply as the day it was inscribed.

There’s a bucket of waters in ice next to the speaker, and I force myself to reach for one as my cheek throbs.

Before I can press it to my face, the curtains move.

My head snaps up.

Harrison’s usual elegance is rumpled. His shirt has lost two buttons, his jacket hanging haphazardly from his shoulders as if it refuses to let go. His hair is sticking up as he rubs a hand across his jaw, each knuckle dark with blood.

He closes the distance between us, stopping when my shins brush the tailored fabric of his dress pants. He inspects my face, lingering on my cheekbone that feels as if it might explode.

He’s a king tonight, and for the first time, I see its weight on his face, his bones.

“You’re hurt.” The words are forceful, but strained. His eyes narrow on the unopened water bottle in my hands. “Where did he touch you?”

When I don’t answer, his hands go to work searching for damage.

I stiffen as his touch roams my bare arms first, then my torso, finding a rip in my dress I hadn’t noticed.

He shrugs out of his jacket and loops it around my shoulders, warming me before I realize I was shivering.

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