Chapter 11
Chapter Eleven
David
The second I see his hand on her, something in me detonates.
Not irritation.
And not annoyance.
This is rage.
Hot. Immediate. Blinding.
He’s gripping her elbow like she belongs to him.
Like she doesn’t have a choice.
And I don’t think.
I don’t calculate optics. I don’t weigh consequences. I don’t ask who the hell he is.
I just move.
“She doesn’t want you touching her,” I growl.
“So what?” This prick replies.
“So I suggest you stop while you still have use of that hand.”
The words leave me low and steady, but there’s nothing controlled about what’s under them.
For half a second, the guy doesn’t register I’m there.
Then he looks at Hilary and back to me.
And I see it—the confusion, the flicker of uncertainty when he realizes I’m not just some random passerby.
I step forward.
Slow.
Measured.
Not charging.
Not posturing.
But I make it clear—this space? It’s mine now.
My jaw tightens.
He still hasn’t let go.
And that’s a big no no.
“What’s your problem, man?” he snaps.
My problem?
You put your hands on her.
But I don’t say that.
I straighten just enough.
This man is her ex, and hearing her call him that?
Well, let’s just say something dark flickers inside me.
It’s a good thing he’s her ex.
“She doesn’t want you touching her,” I repeat.
Simple.
Clear.
That should be enough.
He bristles, eyes narrowing at me. But he lets go. And I see my girl step away from him, closer to me. And that has every possessive cell in my body standing at attention.
“Who are you? You’re not from around here,” he sneers. “You just passing through?”
That one hits.
Because I am passing through.
Because I don’t know if I’m staying.
Because I don’t know what the hell I’m doing here.
But none of that matters right now.
I step closer anyway.
Not aggressive.
Not threatening.
Just bigger.
Occupying space.
Making it clear that he doesn’t get to.
“Last warning,” I say quietly, “get out and don’t come back. There’s nothing for you here.”
The bookstore is silent behind us. I’m aware of movement near the register—the older woman watching.
Of Hilary’s breathing.
Of my own pulse hammering in my ears.
He looks between us.
Sees something he doesn’t like.
“Oh, I get it,” he says. “This is what this is about. You finally want more, huh? Some big-city guy instead of someone stable? Well, can’t say I’m surprised, Larry.”
I see it hit her.
That flicker.
That sting.
And that’s it.
I step fully between them.
Shielding her without even thinking about it.
“You’re done,” I tell him, grabbing his collar with one hand..
No theatrics. No raised voice.
This is my final warning.
He huffs, hands raised, and I shove him back—hard enough to make my point, but not hard enough to break anything in her store. I wouldn’t do that. Not to her.
He stands, adjusting his shirt like he’s salvaging pride that never existed.
“Fine,” he mutters. “You’ll get bored of her, too. They always do. And then she’ll come crawling back to me!”
You’ll get bored of her.
The words twist in my gut. I snarl and lunge for him, but Eric has some survival skills.
He shoots me one quick glare and runs out the door.
The bell chimes.
And he’s gone.
My chest is heaving.
Fuck. I should’ve hit him. Should’ve pummeled his stupid face in.
I think about going after him. But I don’t move.
I stay where I am.
Between her and the exit.
Like he might come back.
Like I’m guarding something.
What the hell is wrong with me?
“David.”
Her voice pulls me back.
She grabs my hand, and I swear to God, it feels like I’m touching a live wire.
I face her.
The anger drains out of me in pieces, leaving something else in its place.
Concern.
“You sure you’re okay?” I ask again.
Because I need to hear it.
“I was handling it,” she says.
“I know.”
And I do.
That’s the part that’s messing with my head.
She didn’t need me.
She wasn’t helpless.
I didn’t step in because she couldn’t fight her own battle.
I stepped in because I couldn’t stand watching him touch her.
“I didn’t need you to fight my battles,” she says.
“I wasn’t fighting it,” I answer quietly. “I was making sure you didn’t have to.”
The words surprise me.
Because they’re true.
And because I don’t talk like that.
I don’t plant myself between men and women like I’ve got some claim.
But when it comes to her?
Every instinct I have goes territorial.
Protective.
Possessive.
And I don’t understand it.
I’ve known her what—two weeks?
And yet the idea of someone putting their hands on her without permission makes something ancient and ugly rise up inside me.
I shouldn’t feel this.
I shouldn’t want this—her. Not like this.
But I do.
And that? That’s a hell of a lot more dangerous than any fight.