Chapter 7 Violet #2
His arms rest on the bar, muscles coiled under the sleeves of black ink. Serpentine scales wrap around his forearm, climbing, coiling, each ridge and curve etched with such precise detail that I can almost feel the rough texture beneath my fingers.
A skull is inked on his wrist, cracked and hollow-eyed, as if it’s seen too much and survived anyway. Thorn-covered vines twist through the gaps, weaving between bone and shadow, like something alive waiting to bite.
Jude doesn’t glance at me. Not at first. He just taps his fingers against the counter in a slow, deliberate motion.
Then he speaks in a voice that snakes down my spine and settles in places it shouldn’t. “Double bourbon. No ice.”
His detached, dissecting gaze lifts toward me, and it’s as if he’s seeing straight through me, peeling me apart layer by layer.
I hate that Jude makes me feel this way.
I’m fully clothed, but I feel stark naked around him.
I swallow hard, my fingers twitching as I grab the glass.
There’s no reason for my throat to feel dry or for my pulse to thud unevenly.
No reason at all.
After I pour his drink, my hands steadier than I feel, I slide it toward him. His fingers brush against mine when he reaches for the glass.
And for a moment, our eyes meet, mine frantic, his intense and unforgiving, like the grim reaper I used to fantasize about.
A spark of something dark and ancient courses through me at the feel of his long, rough fingers, and I jerk mine away, feeling heat creeping up my neck.
His eyes narrow slightly, but I’m already rushing to another customer at the other end of the bar.
Even though I spend the rest of my shift trying to ignore him, I can feel him.
His eyes.
His attention.
His sheer presence.
It’s suffocating.
I’m teetering on the edge of a breakdown, trying to think about what the hell he plans to do next.
I’ve been jittery for weeks, and I don’t think I can survive this for long.
Shaking my head, I choose to focus on work.
The tray wobbles in my hand as I move through the crowded back tables, balancing drinks with practiced ease, my mind staying three steps ahead.
That’s when a sharp slap cracks against my ass.
I freeze.
The tray tilts dangerously, liquid sloshing over my fingers. A sharp inhale burns my throat, but I swallow the yelp down, choke on it, and bury it where all the other moments like this go.
This isn’t the first time; it won’t be the last.
The cold, familiar feeling of disgust slithers through me, but I force a tight-lipped smile and step back before he can trap me—
It happens so fast.
One second, I’m pulling away. The next, a rough shove knocks me backward, and my balance falters as the tray tilts from my grip.
The world lurches.
The crash of breaking glass shatters the air.
Beer spills in sticky ribbons over my hands, soaking into my skin before the sharp scent of alcohol hits me. But that’s not why my breath locks in my throat.
That’s not why the whole bar falls silent for half a beat.
It’s him.
Jude is no longer sitting at the bar.
He’s now lifting the bald, heavyset man who just spanked me by the collar.
Then punches him in the face.
The impact is sickening. A crack, a gurgled gasp, a splatter of red. The man barely has time to react before Jude throws him onto the table.
The wood splinters under his weight, shattering into two uneven halves. His friends stumble to their feet, wide-eyed, like they don’t know if they should fight or flee.
They should probably run.
Because there’s no stopping him.
Jude moves like a force of nature, not a man, not even a monster—just a raw, uncontrollable force. He punches. And punches.
And punches.
Like the first time we ‘met’—when he brutalized Dave until there was nothing left but blood and bone.
The look in his eye now is the same as then.
Blind rage.
No limits.
No conscience.
Mario blocks the other men, shoving them back like they’re nothing, ensuring Jude’s violent spree is left undisturbed.
I should leave. I should run.
Escape to the staff room, hide my face, pretend this never happened.
That’s what I always do.
But for some stupid, reckless reason, I push through the chaos, through the people shouting, through the beer mugs pounding against wood as the crowd chants, ”Fight! Fight! Fight!”
And then I do something I shouldn’t.
I touch him.
A tentative hand on his inked arm.
His muscles bunch beneath my fingers, as tight as steel cords. He’s still clutching the semi-conscious man by the collar, his knuckles dripping red, but at my touch, he swings around, his fist raised.
My breath catches and I flinch back, my hand burning where it touched him, as if his rage is contagious.
His pupils are blown wide, drowning the color in his irises in two pools of darkness.
Violence.
Rage.
It’s always as if he’s standing on the edge of something inhuman.
But then, for a moment, as his gaze locks on to mine, recognition flickers and his fist hangs in midair.
“Please stop.” My voice is quieter than the storm around us, but he hears it.
Because his gaze drags down to my mouth, like he can read the words off my lips, which twitch uncontrollably, crumbling under his attention.
The way he looks at me with that quiet intensity ignites a disturbing feeling inside me, a deep discomfort laced with an invisible thread I can’t quite cut.
The fight drains out of him.
Or maybe he just decides the man isn’t worth any more effort.
Because Jude lets security take the bald guy from his grip.
Then, in a single, casual motion, he pulls a stack of cash from his jeans and tosses it at the manager. “For the damage.”
And just like that—he turns and leaves.
Mario follows without a word.
I release a shaky breath, gripping the tattoo on my wrist as my knees threaten to buckle.
By the time my shift ends, I feel like I’ve been washed, wrung out, and hung to dry. Every inch of me aches—my back, my feet, my skull.
All I want to do is snuggle into my couch and fall asleep listening to an audiobook.
My backpack slung over my sore shoulder, I walk out of HAVEN, massaging it, already dreaming of patches, heat packs, and the blessed oblivion of sleep—
My eyes widen and my fist that I’m using to rub my shoulder is frozen.
Because Jude didn’t leave.
He’s still here.
Dressed in black from head to toe, he’s leaning against his bike, his legs crossed at the ankles. His leather jacket and gloves radiate quiet menace as he toys with his helmet with controlled movements.
The streetlamp overhead flickers, its light flashing over the shadowed cut of his jaw and lips that are always set in a line.
I wonder if he ever smiles.
No.
I really shouldn’t care whether or not my stalker smiles.
I lower my head, quickening my pace in the opposite direction.
In a fraction of a second, a large shadow steps in front of me.
My stomach drops as heavy boots and dark jeans come into my vision. “You’re coming with me.”
My fingers twitch against my wrist, tracing my tattoo out of instinct. “Why—”
“I’m over here.” His voice is low, steady, and completely void of patience. “Look at me when you talk to me.”
I lift my head, my pulse hammering. “I’d rather not go anywhere with you.”
“Your preferences don’t matter.”
Before I can react, he slams the helmet onto my head. “Hop on the bike, Violet. We have a long night ahead of us.”