Chapter 2
Kevin
Damn, it feels good to hear her say she belongs to me.
The thought hits me hard and fast, a rush of satisfaction that goes straight to my chest before I can stop it.
Her boyfriend. She called me her boyfriend.
Even if it's just for show, even if she's only saying it to get this asshole to back off, hearing those words from Steph's lips does something to me. It lights me up from the inside out.
But I don't get to enjoy it.
Not when this piece of shit still has his hand wrapped around her wrist. Not when I can see the panic in her eyes, the way her breathing has gone shallow and quick. Not when everything in me is screaming to put this guy through the nearest wall.
I'm seeing red.
Pure, white-hot rage that makes my vision tunnel and my fists clench so hard my knuckles crack.
He's touching her. After everything she's been through—after the bruises I saw on her arms that night ten months ago, after the fear in her voice when she called 911, after watching her rebuild herself piece by piece—this drunk asshole thinks he has the right to put his hands on her.
I lean in closer, crowding his space, and drop my voice low enough that only he can hear the razor's edge in it.
"Let. Her. Go."
He must hear something in my tone—or maybe he recognizes the way every muscle in my body is coiled tight, ready to spring—because his hand opens and Steph yanks her arm back, cradling it against her chest.
I don't take my eyes off him.
"Time to settle up," I say, my voice still deadly calm even though my blood is pounding in my ears. "Pay your tab. And make sure you leave a nice tip."
"What? I'm not—"
"You're done here." I straighten to my full height, using every inch of the authority I've built over years in special ops and now on the force.
"You've had too much to drink, and you just put your hands on someone who told you no.
Multiple times. So here's what's going to happen.
You're going to pay. You're going to leave.
And you're going to do it without another word. "
His face flushes red—anger or embarrassment, I don't care which. "You can't kick me out. You don't even work here."
"No, but I'm a cop. And if you don't move your ass right now, I'll be a cop making an arrest for harassment and public intoxication." I pull out my badge, letting him get a good look. "Your choice."
He glares at me, then at Steph, but something in my expression must convince him I'm not bluffing. He fumbles for his wallet, throws too many bills on the bar, and staggers to his feet.
"Steph," I say, not looking away from the drunk. "Call him a cab."
Her voice comes out steadier than I expected. "Already on it."
I follow the guy to the door, keeping myself between him and the rest of the bar. Archer's already there, arms crossed, reading the situation with the practiced eye of someone who's done this before.
"He's leaving," I tell Archer. "Cab's on the way. Make sure he gets in it and doesn't drive."
Archer nods once, all business. "Got it."
I watch as the drunk stumbles out into the night air, Archer trailing behind him like a very large, very intimidating shadow. Only when the door swings shut, do I let myself breathe.
My hands are still shaking.
Not from fear. From the effort of holding myself back.
From not doing what every instinct in my body was screaming at me to do—grab that asshole by the throat and make him understand what happens to men who think they can put their hands on women who say no.
Especially my woman. Or who will be one day. When she's ready.
I turn back to the bar, scanning for Steph.
She's gone.
Ainsley catches my eye from behind the bar, jerking her head toward the back hallway. "She needed a minute," she says quietly. "She's in the break room."
I nod and head that way, my heart still hammering against my ribs.
The break room is small—nothing more than a closet with a table, two chairs, and a mini-fridge. Steph is sitting in a chair, elbows on her knees, head in her hands. Even from the doorway, I can see she's shaking.
"Steph."
She looks up, and my chest clenches at what I see in her face. She's pale—too pale—and her eyes are too bright, like she's fighting back tears.
"Kevin, I'm so sorry," she blurts out before I can say anything else. "I shouldn't have said that. About you being my boyfriend. I just panicked, and didn't know what else to say and—"
"Hey." I cross the room in two steps and crouch down in front of her, bringing myself to her eye level. "Don't. Don't apologize."
"But I put you in a weird position—"
"I don't care about that." I do care, but not in the way she thinks. Not because I minded. "I care that you're okay."
She lets out a shaky laugh that sounds dangerously close to a sob. "I'm fine."
"You're white as a sheet and shaking." I keep my voice gentle even though I want to go back outside and finish what I started. "Talk to me."
She closes her eyes, pressing the heels of her hands against them. "It just... when he grabbed me, it brought everything back. The way Carl used to grab me. The way he wouldn't listen when I said no. The way he'd laugh like I was being ridiculous for wanting him to stop."
Every word makes the rage simmer hotter in my gut.
Carl. Her ex. The piece of shit I arrested several times—and one final time, ten months ago—after Steph got the courage to call 911.
I remember everything about that night. The way she'd opened the door with a split lip and fear in her eyes, the defensive bruises on her arms, the careful way she moved like her ribs hurt.
I remember the cold satisfaction of putting Carl in handcuffs and the restraining order that followed.
And I remember the way she looked at me like I was the first person who listened when she said she needed help.
"He's not here," I say, forcing my voice to stay calm. Controlled. "Carl can't hurt you anymore."
"I know. I know that." She drops her hands, meeting my eyes. "But for a second, it didn't matter. All I could feel was someone holding me when I didn't want them to, and I just... I froze."
"You didn't freeze," I counter. "You got him to let go. You handled it."
"By lying and saying I had a boyfriend."
"By using the tools you had available." I shift, resisting the urge to reach out and touch her. She doesn't need that right now. "There's no wrong way to get someone to stop touching you, Steph."
She takes a shaky breath, and some of the color comes back to her face. "He's going to come back. The guy from the bar. He's been here every night this week."
My jaw tightens. "I've seen him."
"He asks me out every single time. Tonight's the first time he's grabbed me, but..." She trails off, wrapping her arms around herself. "He's just a tourist who enjoys hanging out here. He'll get bored eventually."
"Or he'll escalate." The words come out harder than I intend, and I take a breath. "How long has this been going on?"
"Since Monday."
Five days. Five days of this asshole harassing her, and tonight he crossed the line into putting his hands on her.
"I'm coming here more often," I say, the decision made before I've even finished the thought.
"Kevin, you don't have to—"
"I'm coming here more often," I repeat, firmer this time. "And I'm going to talk to some guys on patrol, see if they can swing by in uniform during their shifts. Make a presence known."
Understanding dawns in her eyes. "You think that'll scare him off?"
"If he's just a tourist looking for a good time, yeah. Guys like that don't want attention from cops." I pause. "And if he's not, then we'll handle it."
"Handle it how?"
"By making sure he knows you're not alone." I hold her gaze, willing her to believe me. "You're not alone, Steph. You've got me, Ainsley, Troy, and Archer. You've got an entire bar full of people who've got your back."
Her eyes brighten again, but this time it's different. Softer. "Thank you."
"You don't have to thank me."
"I do, though." She straightens in her chair, some of her usual strength returning. "You didn't have to play along out there. You didn't have to get involved."
"Yeah, I did." The words come out rougher than I mean them to, weighted with months of watching her from a distance and wishing I could close the gap between us. "Of course I did."
Something shifts in her expression—surprise, maybe, or recognition—but before she can respond, the break room door swings open and Ainsley pokes her head in.
"Everything okay back here?"
Steph nods, standing up and smoothing down her shirt. "Yeah. I'm good. Sorry for leaving you alone out there."
"Don't apologize. Just wanted to make sure you're okay." Ainsley's gaze jumps between us, reading the room with the accuracy of someone who knows both of us too well. "Drunk guy's in his cab. Archer made sure of it."
"Good," I say, rising to my feet. "I'll check in with him."
"Kevin." Steph's voice stops me at the door. When I turn back, she's looking at me with something I can't quite name in her eyes. "Seriously. Thank you."
I nod once, not trusting myself to say anything that won't give away how much tonight mattered to me. How good it felt to hear her call me her boyfriend, even if it was just an act. How much I want it to be real.
Instead, I just say, "Anytime, Steph. I mean that."
And then I walk out before I can do something stupid like tell her the truth—that I've been waiting for her to be ready, and I'd wait forever if that's what she needed.
Because Steph Walters is worth waiting for.
Even if she doesn't know it yet.