Page 31 of Dark Knight

“Thanks.” She wastes no time emptying the glass before giving me a defiant look that I choose to ignore. For all I know, she wants to start a fight, so we'll go home. I won't let her do that. She wants to push her limits? She can be my guest.

“Go ahead,” I urge, nodding toward the dance floor with its blue and purple lights swinging in all directions from overhead. “Have fun. I'm not stopping you.”

“Fine. I will.” She is every inch an empress looking over her court as she strides away from the bar before getting caught up in the crowd, expertly working her way to the dance floor without getting caught up in the flow of moving bodies.

Fuck me. I didn't consider this. What it would mean to watch her dance. She's not far from where I'm standing near the railing, but she doesn't so much as glance my way before she swings her hips to the pounding rhythm. Her eyes close, and after a few minutes, she loosens up and her movements start to flow. She's not thinking about what she's doing now. She's in her body, letting the music guide her. There's no self-consciousness, no worries.

With my free hand, I grip the brass rail until my knuckles ache. How easy would it be to meet her down there, to step up from behind and take her by the hips. To pull her close so she could grind against my dick, so I could bury my face in her neck and inhale her. The smell would intensify the hotter she gets, and soon it would mix with sweat that would bead at her hairline and roll down her neck.

I truly need to get laid. But I'm not sure even that would help at this point, considering it's more than just physical shit with her. I want to break her down. I want her on her knees, begging for me. For my touch, my kiss, my cock.

But I'm here, and she's there, and that's the way it's supposed to be. That's the way it has to be if I want to walk out of this with my life.

It's no surprise when she finally catches the attention of a tall, blonde guy in a tight T-shirt. He's on the other side of the floor, but I catch him watching her, following her every movement with eyes that bring the wordhunterto mind. He has spotted his prey, and now he begins crossing the floor, turning sideways to work his way between writhing bodies. I don't know what's louder: the music or my heart pounding. I have to restrain myself rather than go out there and get in his way. This is how she wants it? This is how it has to be.

Her eyes are closed still, and she's too deep into the trance she's fallen into. I want to call out, to warn her, but I know she wouldn't hear me. There's nothing to do but brace myself and hope she can handle it.

Her eyes fly open and she stops moving when he leans in and says something that makes her head snap back. She doesn't flip out, nodding and offering an overly bright smile. A group of girls pushes their way past her from behind and she stumbles, but rights herself before she falls against him. My eyes are glued, and I realize I'm holding my breath.Don't you touch her. Don't you dare fucking touch her.

He says something else and she shakes her head, shrugging, and I can taste my relief when she begins moving away toward where I'm waiting. He calls out, but she shakes her head, waving her hands.

And that's when he makes his mistake. That's when his arm shoots out, his hand circling her forearm. He's even smiling. Mr. Nice Guy wanting nothing more than to buy her a drink.

He's not smiling once she pivots on her heel and drives a fist into his chest.

I can't hear him, but it's easy to read his lips. “What the fuck?” He leans down, his head tipped to the side. “What is your fucking problem?”

He's too close. I know it, and that's what gets me moving, seeing the way he leans over her, the way she shrinks back, the way she shoves him with both hands until he stumbles backward so she can flee, her blonde curls bouncing as she fights her way through the crowd and out the front door.

I should follow her, but instead I go to him, taking him by the shoulder and spinning him in place. He doesn't have time to register what's happening before I pull back my fist and drive it into his nose. There are gasps and shouts all around us, all of which we ignore in favor of shoving him to the floor before charging out after her.

I knew it. I knew this was going to happen. Why the hell can't she ever listen to reason? When will it be enough? And she wanted to come here alone?

How am I supposed to help her?

I didn't realize how warm I was until the cool air hit me in the face on emerging into the night. My head swings right and left, but there's no sign of her. She couldn't have gotten far. There are clusters of people around the entrance, vaping, smoking, and laughing. “Did a blond girl run past here?” I ask, but all I get are shrugs.

Fucking useless. Useless like I am. Unable to help her, like I've been all along. Like that night at the hotel, listening as she confirmed all of my suspicions about that bastard she was dating. I always knew he was no good, unworthy of her, bad news. It wasn't anything I could put my finger on; besides, it wasn't my place to voice my opinions. There was always something sly about him, something secretive. He was the sort of person who couldn't be trusted—I knew it instinctively, having grown up with a lot of people I wouldn't have trusted if my life depended on it.

And all I could do was stand there, listen, absorb her agony, and know there was nothing I could do to take it away. It was the same with the hospital, when she was lying there unconscious, trapped in a nightmare I couldn't wake her from—the helplessness, this sense that I had let her down somehow. I'm right back in that place, only I'm no longer sitting by a bedside. I'm searching the street, scanning the area, knowing she couldn't have gotten far in those heels but unable to find her, just the same.

Until I hear a woman crying up ahead in an alley between two darkened buildings. She made it two doors down before she gave up and retreated to the shadows where she could crouch against a brick wall and bury her face in her hands. She reminds me of a beaten puppy, trembling, her high-pitched sobs echoing in the narrow space until they're almost as deafening as the music in the club.

“Tatum.” I lower myself to one knee in front of her, careful not to crowd her too much. “You're alright. You're safe.”

All she does is unleash a fresh burst of anguished sobbing. I feel myself shutting down, pulling away, even turning my face toward the street because I can't stand watching this. Anything but this. I've never been good with tears, but there are only two people who've ever left me feeling this way. Helpless, useless, knowing there's nothing I can do or say to take it away and wanting more than anything to do just that. I'm not angry with her. I'm furious with myself for letting it go this far.

There's got to be a way to get her through this. I have to find it, whatever it is, because she cannot spend the rest of her life breaking down in alleyways. After all, a man grabbed her. “I'm proud of what you did,” I murmur, still watching the cars passing mere feet from where we are hidden in the darkness.

Slowly, she quiets down, but she remains in that protective hunch with her face covered. “You were fierce,” I offer. “He grabbed you, and you didn't hold back. That was a great punch.”

She sniffles. “I'm sure he didn't feel it.”

“His pride did, and sometimes that stings a hell of a lot worse.”

“I couldn't handle it.”

“This time. But you tried. That's worth something.” I feel so fucking stupid, saying whatever comes to my head, what I would want to hear if I were in her shoes.

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