Chapter Thirty #2
He makes it three steps before Evan’s hand closes on the back of his collar in a blur.
There’s not even a warning. For a second, the guy’s heels catch air, like he’s a cartoon character running off a cliff, and then Evan’s got him slammed up against a support beam so hard that the whole bar shudders.
Bottles rattle behind me, glasses tremble in the racks, a drop of whiskey jumps the rim and soaks into the bar rag in my hand.
“You were warned,” Evan growls.
The bar goes silent. Not the curious kind of silence — the dangerous kind. The kind that says everyone here knows what's about to happen and no one's going to stop it.
"You called her a bitch," Evan says. "That was your second mistake after touching her. You’re not going to get the fucking chance to make a third."
The local tries to push back, tries to twist free, but Evan has him pinned with one forearm across the back of his neck, pressing his face into the rough wood. The local's breath comes in short, panicked bursts, fogging the wood grain inches from his nose. "Get off me, man! I didn't mean —"
"You didn't mean what?" Evan's voice is terrifyingly calm. "You didn't mean to grab a woman who told you no? You didn't mean to call her a bitch when she wouldn't spread her legs for you? Which part didn't you mean?"
I should stop this. Tell Evan to let him go, or at least modulate the violence so we don’t have to call an ambulance and explain to the sheriff why there’s a local in the walk-in freezer with a broken larynx.
I should do that because I don’t need defending, because I don’t want anyone’s pity, because I hate the way everyone’s watching like I’m the prize in some macho tug-of-war.
But I don’t move. I don’t say a word.
Because this is hitting something deep in me, some ugly little pleasure that I don’t want to acknowledge but that’s there all the same.
The way Evan moves, calm and precise, not out of control but exactly in control, every muscle loaded with intent — there’s nothing performative about it.
This is not about show. It’s about me. It’s about making the world aware of his protection, and for once, I don’t hate the feeling.
Tank shifts at the edge of my vision, but he doesn't intervene. Neither does Bishop. Neither does anyone. They're watching Evan with the same sharp assessment they'd give a prospect proving himself in a fight — measuring, cataloging, filing away.
The local whimpers. Actually whimpers. "Please, man, I'm sorry — I'm sorry —"
Evan leans closer, and I catch the words he murmurs against the guy's ear, low enough that I have to strain to hear. “It’s not my forgiveness that you need — it’s hers. So you better look at her and apologize like you mean it, or else you won’t be walking out of here.”
The creep’s eyes meet mine, and all he says is, “Please… I’m sorry.”
Evan looks at me, a question in his eyes: do you want more, or is this enough? The power of it, the way he anchors on me for permission — it’s a sensation like nothing I’ve ever felt.
“Let him go.”
Evan does, and the man spins away, stumbling, one hand covering his face and the tears that brim in the corner of his eyes. He runs to the door and slams it behind him.
A few laughs track the guy out. The bar swells back to life, like the whole thing was a brief entertainment break.
Evan turns to me, and the shift in his face is wild—one second he’s all fury and threat, the next he’s soft again, worried, his eyes searching mine for signs of damage.
“You good?” he says.
My heart — traitor that it is — answers first, with a hard, warm thump that lifts my lips with warmth and sends a silent gasp breaking between them. I cover it with a scoff and force a frown. “I had it handled.”
Evan’s gaze drops to my wrist. There’s a red mark, already blooming. It’ll become a bruise later; a reminder of a man I’d rather forget. His jaw ticks.
“I know,” he says. “Doesn’t mean you have to.”
I want to tell him to fuck off, but I can’t.
Not when he’s looking at me like I’m made of glass, not when he just staked his claim in the middle of the goddamn room.
So I grab a towel and start wiping down the bar, furious at the stickiness, at the memory of the guy’s hand, at Evan’s protectiveness.
Furious that I need my hands busy with a towel, or else they’ll be taken over by the thoughts of grabbing him and pulling him close enough to kiss.
“You’re supposed to be outside,” I say. “On the roof.”
“I was,” he says. “Then I looked through the window and saw that asshole touch you.”
Of course he did.
I finally look at him fully. He’s close—too close for my rules, too close for the secret I’m trying to keep. His body blocks the worst of the room’s gaze, as if he’s creating a pocket of space just for me.
“Go back out there,” I say. My voice has a burr in it, a rasp that surprises both of us. “Before people start talking.”
Evan holds my gaze like he’s reading every lie I’m telling myself. He hesitates a beat. “You sure that’s what you want?”
I open my mouth, ready to cut him off, but what comes out is softer than I mean. “Please, Evan.”
Evan’s eyes drop to my mouth, then back up, like he’s memorizing the shape of the word.
For a second, I think he’s going to say something else, some stupid apology or a line about how he couldn’t help himself.
But he just nods, once, and then heads for the back, moving through the crowd like he owns every inch between him and the exit.
The bar noise rushes in around me again.
But my wrist still burns where that man grabbed me.
And my chest feels full in a way that scares the hell out of me.
Because the worst part isn’t that Evan stepped in, it’s that — god help me — I wanted him to. And that, in front of everyone in the clubhouse, he just marked me as his.