Chapter 14 #2
She lifts her chin, lips curling into a practiced, sweet smile.
"I'm flattered, really," she says, her tone syrupy and smooth. "But I don't do requests like that."
The man chuckles, shaking his head as if she's a joke he's already heard a thousand times. He dismisses her with a wave of his hand.
Katherine keeps her face blank, her stance light. But her pulse is hammering beneath the surface.
"I'm here to dance," she replies, voice still soft, still honeyed— but firm. Clear. "Nothing more."
That should be the end of it. It always is.
Most men take the hint. Get embarrassed when they push too hard.
He stands. Slowly.
Like a shadow peeling itself from the couch.
The lazy sprawl is gone—now he’s moving, deliberate and silent, closing the distance before she can step back.
Then – he grips her tightly, gripping her wrist with an iron grip.
Katherine yanks back on instinct, panic flaring hot and sharp in her chest—but he doesn’t let go. His grip tight, unforgiving, like a man claiming something he thinks he owns. Eyes glitter with sick amusement, like her resistance is just foreplay.
"Don't be like that, baby," he slurs, every syllable thick with entitlement. "I paid good money for you."
Her pulse roars in her ears. This isn’t a misunderstanding. This isn’t something she can charm her way out of.
This is already happening.
Kath lifts her chin, forcing herself to meet his gaze—because looking away would feel too much like surrender. Her body’s screaming for distance, for safety, but he’s already taken that from her.
She’s not choosing whether to fight. She’s choosing how hard.
Her heart hammers against her ribs as she twists, desperate to break his hold, but his grip only tightens. A jolt of nausea twists through her as his other hand finds her waist, fingers digging into the soft flesh there, bruising and possessive.
His breath is hot and sour with expensive whiskey—cloying, vile. Like rot in a gilded glass. A slick, nauseating heat radiates where his breath touches her, every instinct screaming to get away.
"I know you like it," he murmurs, his voice a wet slide against her ear. The smugness in his tone makes her want to vomit. "The little black one told me so."
The words hit Kath like a physical blow. Her world tilts on its axis as understanding crashes through her.
Aria.
That vindictive, jealous bitch had set her up. Had deliberately fed her to this predator, knowing exactly what would happen.
His fingers dig deeper into her flesh—then he lunges, mouth crashing against hers. The kiss is rough, sloppy, reeking of entitlement.
Revulsion surges up her throat. Her stomach flips. The bile is instant.
His breath is hot and sour against her lips, his tongue forcing its way past clenched teeth.
And that’s it. That’s the last fucking straw.
Something snaps.
Kath reacts before thought can interfere—her fist driving hard into his chest, all of her weight and fury behind it. Bone meets muscle with a sickening thud. She feels the impact in her shoulder, hears his breath explode from his lungs in a shocked, strangled wheeze.
But he's bigger than she expected, more solid. His body absorbs the blow without giving way, and panic floods her system as she realizes it wasn't enough.
She pivots, planting both palms against his chest and pushes with everything she has, desperation lending her strength.
He staggers back, but the motion throws her off balance too.
Her heel snags. Gravity wins. Her hip slams into the table’s edge, pain shooting up her side before her elbow crashes down next. Pain explodes through her arm, sharp and vicious, stealing her breath.
A gasp tears from her throat, raw and involuntary. The sound echoes in the private room, mixing with the muted bass from the club beyond.
Through the haze of pain, she sees his face. His lips stretch into a grin, like her pain is exactly what he wanted. This is what he came for—her pain, her helplessness. It’s written all over his smile.
The man lunges forward with terrifying speed, his bulk slamming into Kath before she can recover from her fall.
His weight crushes down on her, trapping her beneath him.
The impact forces the air from her lungs in a sharp gasp.
One hand clamps down on her thigh, bruising the soft flesh.
The other slides higher, groping blindly before seizing her breast through the thin fabric of her top.
His fingers squeeze with cruel pressure, no care, no hesitation—just possession.
Kath’s stomach heaves as his whiskey-soured breath washes over her face, hot and wet against her skin.
She jerks her head to the side, desperate to escape the nauseating closeness, but he follows, his face inches from hers, hovering like a predator savoring its prey.
“No need to be shy now,” he growls, his voice thick with anticipation, trembling with an eagerness that makes bile rise in her throat.
She pushes against his chest with all her strength, muscles burning with effort, trying to create space between them.
But he’s too heavy, pressing down with suffocating certainty.
His hand drops from her breast, fumbles roughly beneath her skirt. She feels the tug of her panties, the sharp snap of fabric straining as he claws at the waistband.
Terror and rage surge through her veins like fire. Her skin crawls beneath his touch, every nerve in her body screaming to get him off. Her limbs thrash against his bulk, but it's like fighting stone.
He shifts his weight to one side, trying to free his other hand, his breath ragged with effort—and then she hears it.
The soft, metallic clink of his belt.
Panic explodes inside her like shrapnel.
Pure instinct takes over. Kath opens her mouth and screams, the sound ripping from her throat with raw desperation. “HELP!” The word echoes off the walls, primal and terrified. “HELP-!”
His palm crashes over her mouth, smothering the next scream—then strikes her cheek in a brutal backhand. Her head snaps sideways, pain blooming hot and sharp. The taste of blood floods her mouth.
“Shut up.”
His voice has changed—stripped of its drunken playfulness, revealing something colder. More calculated.
The stumbling, entitled idiot was just a mask.
This is who he really is. This is what he planned all along.
She kicks out desperately, her heel scraping down his shin. The angle robs her of power, but she puts everything she has into it. His answering snarl tells her she at least made him feel it.
She rakes her nails down his forearm, carving deep, furious lines. He grunts in annoyance but barely loosens his grip.
The room spins. Grey creeps in at the edges. Fear? Lack of air? Both. She can't tell anymore. Panic claws up her throat, raw and feral.
She wrenches her head to the side and screams again—ragged, broken. “Help! Somebody, please!”
It tears from her like a dying breath, muffled and cracked, but it’s sound. It’s resistance. It’s hers.
But in the clarity that follows, reality strikes.
No one is coming.
Each second slips away, dragging her chances with it.
Her strength, her control, her last options—slipping through her fingers like sand in a storm.
And then—he was gone.
One moment, she still felt his fingers clawing under her skirt, forcing their way between her thighs, searching—violating.
The next, the weight vanished.
A crash tore through the room—splintering glass, a grunt of pain—and then silence.
Katherine gasped, lungs spasming as air rushed in too fast. Her chest heaved, tears streaking hot down her cheeks as she rolled onto her side, body trembling. Her skirt was twisted, her skin burning where he'd touched her, her breath coming in sharp, ragged pulls she couldn't control.
She tried to rise. Failed. Her limbs shook too hard to listen.
And then—Benjamin.
Sudden. Solid. Kneeling beside her. No words, no questions. Just hands—steady, grounding, there. One on her back.
The other brushing hair from her face, as if reminding her she was still real. Still here.
She collapsed against him without thinking, her fingers seizing his shirt like it was the only thing tethering her to the world. He was warm. Solid. The heat radiating off him was fury barely contained.
Her sobs came in broken gasps, her whole body shuddering with them.
Ben didn’t speak. He didn’t need to.
The man was already on the ground, coughing, choking on air and blood, trying to remember how to breathe. Ben’s body blocked the light, towering over him, eyes flat, voice cold enough to blister.
“You put your hands on her.”
It wasn’t a question. It wasn’t even rage—it was the kind of quiet that came before something broke. The kind that screamed louder than any shout ever could.
He stepped forward, slow and deliberate, like a storm deciding which building to tear apart first.
“I will break every fucking finger you used to touch her.”
The man whimpered— but whatever he might’ve said died in his throat.
Ian appeared in the doorway—deliberate, controlled in movement, but already burning from the inside out.
His expression was stone. His jaw, locked. But his eyes?
Rage. Unfiltered. Unapologetic. Absolute.
The kind of fury that doesn’t just enter a room—it devours it.
He didn’t speak. Not at first. He just moved.
One brutal kick slammed into the man’s gut, folding him in half with a choked grunt. Before he could recover, Ian was on him—grabbing him by the collar, dragging him up like he weighed nothing.
"You don't touch my girls!" This time, he roared. The force of it cracked through the air like thunder.
The man whimpered, coughing, doubled over. It didn’t matter. Ian wasn’t listening.
Fury poured off him like heat from an open furnace, and every ounce of it had a target.
He was already dragging him out the door, down the hallway, and toward the back exit. Everyone in Crimson Bloom knew what that meant.
The alley behind the club wasn’t for deliveries.
It was for consequences.