Page 69 of Over the Line

Olivia doing—

It doesn’t matter.

All of the bad shit—through all of that bullshit, all of the dysfunction and drama and the fucking theatrics, I never once put my hands on a woman.

Fucking.Never.

The asshole opens his mouth, probably to spout off about his treatment, but I just shoot him a glare and turn toward Nova. She’s crouching next to Steve, her expression set in deep lines, the worry clear even from fifteen feet away.

I want to go to her, but I can’t.

I need to stay here, and…

Fuck. It doesn’t matter.

I just can’t go there.

But my feet start carrying me over anyway, and then I’m squatting down next to her. “Help is coming,” I say. “For Steve and to get these assholes out of here.”

She glances up at me with glimmering emerald eyes. “What do you mean?”

There’s a scuffle back by the front door, so I don’t have the chance to explain. Mostly because my next minutes are taken up by tackling the asshole to the floor, ripping his car keys from his pocket, and then, pulse pounding, adrenaline ramping, hands fisting, desperate to plow into the asshole’s face, I shove him down to the floor.

“You can go,” I say and hold up the keys, “but you’ll be going without these.”

“Fuck you,” he snaps.

“Right back at you,” I mutter, pocketing the set before turning to Nova’s sister. “And you’re welcome to fuck off right out of here too.”

“I-I’m just trying to talk to my sister.” Her lip quivers, and I don’t buy the innocent act at all.

“That’s not happening.”

She crosses her arms, innocent falling away right on cue. Drama and bullshit coming out, as is typical of women. “You can’t tell me what to do.”

Just notallwomen.

Or maybe…just not Nova.

“Sure can,” I say, narrowing my eyes at her. “Especially when you’re trespassing.”

A blip of something crosses her face—guilt, calculation. But it’s gone a second later. “I don’t even know who you are,” she snaps.

“And I don’t give a fuck,” I tell her. “Brave the storm or shut the fuck up.”

“Brave it in an empty house?” she sneers.

“An empty house with heat, or a blizzard that’s going to get worse in the next hour.” I shrug. “Your choice.” Not giving her a chance to reply to that, I go to the kitchen, fill up a couple of bags of ice, and bring them to Nova.

“Coat off,” I order, carefully removing her camera, setting it on the floor.

“What?” she whispers, pausing in her gentle stroking of Steve’s forehead, skin pale, eyes damp. No drama here. Just care and concern…and a woman who’s taken more than a few hits in life.

“Butterfly,” I say more firmly. “Coat. Off.”

Her throat works. “I’m fine—”

I tug the tab of her jacket down, peel it from her arms. Then I undo the zip of her hooded sweatshirt, tug up the sleeves of her T-shirt beneath.

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