Forty- Nine
“He’s fire, devouring and demanding, impossible to tame. Yet, here I stand, daring the flames to take me.”–Aria Boschett.
My body flinches as something hard presses into my ass. The sickening realization sobers me in an instant. Whatever fury drove me onto this dance floor evaporates. I wrench myself free from his grip on my waist.
“Relax. I’m just trying to have a little fun with you.
Don’t fight it,” he slurs hands landing right back where they were.
My heart slams against my ribs as I twist again, but he tightens his hold, dragging me closer.
His breath, thick with alcohol, grazes my cheek.
Every internal alarm I have screams at once.
I shift my weight, slipping free, but his fingers clamp around my wrist like a vise.
“Let me go,” I snap, panic slicing through my voice.
He doesn’t. The idiot is still holding on to me. Does this creep realize I’m trying to save his life?
“Don’t be like that. You started this, right?
” He chuckles, clueless. Thank goodness a couple stumbles into him from behind.
His grip loosens for half a second. It’s all I need.
I rip my wrist free and lunge for Tasha, yanking her away from the guy she’s dancing with.
Gracie and Saaha see this, leave their dance partners, and close in, forming a tight group. My girl pack all has my back.
“No thanks. I’m not interested,” I shout over the music.
“Like my girl said, she’s not interested,” Tasha backs me up, her stance fierce.
Another man steps forward, beer sloshing over the rim of his cup. “Come on, ladies, let’s buy you something to drink,” he grins. His friend sways beside him.
“Look, y’all, we don’t need your drinks or anything else,” Saaha yells, her Texas twang carrying farther than it should.
“Just leave us alone.” Laughter ripples through the surrounding crowd.
At that moment, the man I danced with loses his smile.
The amusement drains from his eyes, replaced by something meaner. His lip curls. Shit.
His arm jerks back, coiling.
Time slows.
He’s going to hit Saaha.
I step in front of her without thinking. His fist swings toward my face. I raise my arm and brace for impact. It never comes.
“Oi, Jacob,” an Irish accent cuts through the chaos, cold and lethal. “You weren’t about to hit my woman?” The words jolt through me, and I see him.
Cyan stands there with Collin and the others, a wall of men closing in. His hand is holding Jacob’s arm, and even from where I stand, I can see how tight his grip is. Jacob’s drunken bravado evaporates, his eyes widening as reality slams into him, sobriety arriving far too late.
“No, no, Mr. MacBrady, I-I didn’t know she was yours,” Jacob stammers. “Besides, I was aiming for the loudmouth in the plaid shirt. Your girl just stepped in the way.” I’m wrong. Jacob isn’t scared sober; he’s scared stupid. Because that’s the worst possible thing he could’ve said.
Before Cyan can respond, Saaha steps out from behind me and drives her cowgirl boot straight into Jacob’s groin.
He buckles instantly, a choked cry tearing from his throat as his knees hit the floor, both hands clutching himself.
She follows it up with a vicious knee to his face.
Bone crunches and blood sprays from his nostrils.
Jacob collapses with a bloody snout, but Saaha isn’t done lifting her boot again, ready to end him.
Troy moves fast. “Whoa, whoa, Doc,” he says, grabbing her around the waist and hauling her back. “Didn’t you take an oath to do no harm?”
“Yeah, big guy, I did,” Saaha snaps, struggling against his grip, eyes wild as she tries to get back to Jacob, who’s now moaning on the floor. “Doesn’t mean I won’t defend myself.”
Troy nods once. “Fair. But we’ll take it from here. Just watch.”
Cyan bends down and takes hold of the arm Jacob raised to strike me. He hauls him upright and with one brutal, efficient motion, wrenches the arm one way while twisting Jacob’s body the other.
Something snaps, crackles, and pops. Jacob screams as his entire arm grotesquely reshapes itself; his cries of pain are sharp enough to slice through the music.
“You’re sorely mistaken, Jacob,” Cyan snarls, voice glacial. “If you thought you could raise a hand against my Lass or her friend.” He leans in. “I should kill you.” He lets Jacob crumple.
Collin is already moving. “Cyan,” he points, crouching beside the wreck on the floor. “Looks like Jacob’s arm broke when he fell. I’ll lend a hand.”
He reaches down as if to help and with another sickening crack, he shatters Jacob’s other arm.
Jacob lets out another raw, wounded, animalistic sound. His friends freeze in place, horror carved into their faces. Every one of them looks like they’re praying they won’t be next.
Cyan straightens and addresses them. “Your friend seems to have broken both arms when he slipped and fell. He needs medical attention.” His gaze hardens.
“Sebastian, and some of my men, will escort you lads to the hospital… because of the fall.” He pauses and lets the statement sink in.
“You understand how gracious I’m being; don’t make me regret it. ”
They all nod, then two of them scramble to lift Jacob, while the third stammers out apologies, thanking Cyan as if gratitude might save him.
Ignoring him, Cyan turns to me, his blue-green eyes narrowing and his jaw hard.
I don’t even realize I’ve stepped back until my spine brushes Tasha.
Cyan stalks forward and grabs me, yanking me into him. “Thomas’ keys.”
He catches them mid-air, already turning, dragging me with him as the crowd parts like the Red Sea.
Every nerve in my body lights up, fear and heat tangling into dangerous, electric excitement.
We hit the stairs, pushing through an EMPLOYEES ONLY hallway, and I try to pull my hand free, my jealousy from earlier flaring.
“Don’t fucking test me, Aria, or we’ll have it out right here. I don’t care who the fuck sees.” His voice is rough, like coarse sandpaper as he continues dragging me along. For a split second, I’m tempted to yank my hand back again in protest, yet uncertainty makes me pause.
The prospect of further embarrassment claws at my thoughts, the fear of staff witnessing my… My what, exactly? What is Cyan planning? Knots tighten in my stomach. Did Cyan see my lapse–the way I ground my hips against Jacob? So, what. It was just a dance.
Elana’s taunts intrude, her smug smile, her words slithering back into my head. The image of Cyan tangled with her in sweaty sheets turns my stomach, bile burning my throat. He stops so abruptly I nearly crash into him.
Cyan jams the key into the lock, punches in the code, and yanks the door open, dragging me inside before slamming it shut behind us. The door locks automatically with a decisive click. The air crackles.
My gaze flicks around the space, taking in the opulence: an expansive VIP suite of glass and dark wood, a commanding desk at its center, a sleek bar lining one wall, the club pulsing just beyond the glass like a living thing. I feel it–his eyes on me. “Strip.” The word cuts through the room.
“What?”
“Aria, I said to fucking strip… or I’ll rip your clothes off myself.” His teeth are bared in a grin that chills me to the bone. My arms hang tense at my sides. Cyan stands still, his piercing gaze burning with an intensity that roots me to the spot.
I should refuse. But my fingers move, pulling the blazer off my shoulders, and it pools at my feet.
My breath pulses as the memory of the car that day flashes through me and my core moistens despite everything.
I bite my lip, my thoughts pushing and pulling at me.
Uncertainty gnaws at my insides. Each choice is tantalizing and overwhelming.
My fingers move, tugging at my corset and shorts, dropping them to the floor, until I stand before him in only my gold thong.
I’m shivering, not from the cold, but from anticipation.
Cyan prowls around me, saying nothing. His silence seems to amplify the tension.
His footsteps are just as silent. This is what it must feel like being circled in the ocean by a great white.
Knowing the shark will attack but knowing you have no clue when.
Every walk around he makes is slow and calculated; my tongue seems frozen on the roof of my mouth.
“C-Cyan.” I manage, my tongue thick. “This is why the bachelor doesn’t attend the bachelorette party, or–um–vice versa.” He keeps circling. “It meant nothing,” I rush out. “It was just a dance.”
He stops behind me. “You’re telling me it would be fine for me to have another’s woman ass writhing against me, and it means fuck-all because it’s just dancing, yeah?”
I whirl on him, jealousy detonating. “Fuck you, Cyan. It was just a dance. Unlike you. I’m not fucking someone else while I’m fucking you.”
His brow creases. “What?” He must be pretending.
“Elana,” I snap, the name tasting like poison. “She cornered me in the fucking ladies’ room. She gloated about you. About her.”
His eyelids squeeze shut, then snap open, but it’s not guilt I see in his face. “How much time, Dove?” he says coldly. “Are you going to let others’ slithering words matter more than mine?” I blink.
“Yeah,” he continues, voice sharp as glass. “I fucked her.” Those three words land like a sharp slap in the face. My gaze drops. My chest caves. Breath lodges painfully in my throat.
Just like that, Elana’s victorious smirk wins the moment.