Milo
My leg will not stop bouncing.
As the car moves, the lights slide past the windows, and in my hand I turn Octavia’s blade over and over.
My souvenir.
I still have not given it back, and I have no intention of doing so.
I keep it as a reminder.
Of our first meeting.
Of the moment she tried to end me and instead etched herself permanently into my life.
In my other hand, I keep tapping at my phone.
Again.
And again.
Message after message.
With no reply.
I let her go. I wanted her to believe I was humouring her, letting this farce run its course.
I didn’t stop her.
I even followed her to the garage only for appearances, offered token protest without any real heat, because I wanted her gone, so I could follow and deal with her properly later.
Punish her for it.
But I also knew that once she set her mind to something, there was no stopping her.
The only alternative would have been to physically restrain her, and even then she would have found a way out. This is a woman who jumped off a balcony the first time I saw her.
I smirk at the memory.
She is just… perfect.
As I send another message, my phone lights up almost immediately. My brows furrow as I continue to turn the blade idly in my hand, expecting for a reply, only to realise it isn’t a message at all but an error, an exclamation mark flashing beside the text instead.
I narrow my eyes.
Arlo looks up from his phone, one brow lifting. “What’s put that repellent expression on your face?”
“What does it mean,” I ask flatly, “when your message won’t send and comes back with a red exclamation mark saying undelivered?”
Isaak answers from the front without turning. “It means she’s blocked you. Good riddance.”
My jaw tightens, my brows knit together even further.
“So,” I ask evenly, “how do I unblock myself?”
Hunter turns in his seat and looks back at me. “You don’t. You’d think someone like you would understand technology, but you sound as though you’re stuck in the nineties.”
I turn my eyes to Arlo. “Hack her phone.”
He barely glances up. “Nah, thanks. I’m good. Too much effort.”
I very nearly stab the fucker.
I am, in fact, genuinely considering it.
But the car slows, easing off as we finally reach the place where they are, coordinates in hand— because apparently pulling the GPS data from the girls’ car required next to no effort at all, yet unblocking me is somehow asking too much.
Yes. I am not best pleased about it.
I pocket my phone and open the door. The town is small, and we have pulled up right on the main street, hemmed in by low buildings, shopfronts, and pubs.
People linger outside the bar, smoking and drinking.
My eyes catch on a group of preppy boys.
I take them in, narrowing my eyes. Have any of them approached my woman? Spoken to her in the ten minutes it took us to follow after them?
One of them looks in my direction, almost confused, likely because I am staring.
For a brief, vivid moment, I consider throwing the blade straight through his eyes. The thought is satisfying.
Then I think better of it.
This blade is mine now. It only touches me.
I slide it back into my pocket instead, and we step inside, the music engulfs us immediately.
My eyes find her a moment later. She’s seated at a corner table, the girls gathered around her.
And then my vision goes black.
Because there are men at their table. Those motherfuckers, looking entirely too comfortable, talking to them as if they have any right to do so.
One idiot in particular is standing too close to my woman.
His hand lifts and brushes against hers, he smirks, his eyes are fixed on her chest the entire time.
I am moving before I realise it, not even registering Arlo and the rest behind me, seething in rage as well.
“I believe you just touched what’s mine.” I growl.
My fist connects with his face. He goes down hard, blood spilling from his nose.
I loom over him. “Get the fuck up.”
He scrambles to his feet, his eyes feral as one hand flies to his nose, blood spilling freely between his fingers.
“Get out of here,” I tell him.
He bolts for the exit, and I follow. He keeps glancing over his shoulder, panic setting in.
I catch sight of a bouncer near the doors, and beside him one of Isaak’s men. Our eyes meet. He gives a brief nod, his hand hovers near his weapon.
I gesture to the man who dared touch what is mine and motion for him to be taken.
Understanding flashes in his eyes. He grabs the boy before he can protest.
“No… don’t touch me—”
I turn and make my way inside.
The music keeps blasting, but the atmosphere has shifted. I suppose not everyone finds violence invigorating, or considers it an improvement to the evening.
Fools, really.
Regardless, people step aside as I move through the room. It is one of the simpler perks of being large, and, more likely, of the display I have just put on.
I look at the table and find it empty now. Only Octavia remains, sipping her drink.
I take the seat beside her, deadly quiet, though inside I am a volcano waiting to erupt.
She continues to sip her drink as if nothing has happened.
She finally looks at me and smirks. “You are, without question, a psycho. A brute. A barbarian, if you will.”
I narrow my eyes at her.
She stands abruptly. “I’m going to dance,” she says, before bolting for the dance floor.
Yeah.
Not happening.
I stand and follow, the crowd parting instinctively as I move.
She is already dancing when I stop behind her, and there is something almost mesmerising about it. She is not drunk, but she is tipsy enough to let go, to move without that usual guard she keeps in place.
Her eyes remain closed as she continues to dance, swaying her arse without a care in the world.
I seize her by the waist and pull her back against me, my cock brushing her as I press close.
I bury my head in the column of her neck and kiss her there at first, softly, then I remember the fucker who dared approach her, who dared touch what is mine. I bite and suck, hard, leaving my mark on her, a claim for anyone watching to see.
She shudders, and when I let go, I expect a punch. Instead, she turns and slips her hands around my neck, the move shocking me for a second.
I pull her closer without hesitation, my hands coming to rest on her plump arse as we move together on the dance floor.
I lift a hand and push a strand of hair from her face, as I bend down and my lips meet hers.
I force my tongue into her mouth. She resists at first, but then she relents, granting access, and I am fucking her mouth without restraint.
It is tongue and teeth and blood, whose, I don’t know. My gorgeous girl has claws of her own. She bites, she sucks.
We lose ourselves in the kiss. It is everything.
I pour all of it into her.
The obsession… the madness.
Mine.
This woman is fucking mine.