Page 50 of Even Beneath the Stars

There's a part of me that wants to tell her I've been thinking about her words from the Observatory last week about Finn. That I acted on them tonight and it backfired… and my gut is twisted in knots because I'm pretty sure my brother hates me now. Curious what she has to say about that—which makes no sense, because I shouldn't care what she has to say about a riftshecreated.

Suddenly, a crash by the washrooms snaps my attention away from Maggie.

"What in the fuck, dude!" Some college guy staggers back against the wall by the washrooms a few feet away, blood streaming between his fingers where he's clutching his nose. "Fucking psycho!" he screams.

My stomach drops when I spot Dylan, fists clenched and bloodied, chest heaving.

"That your only talent?" the guy's friend sneers. "Your fake daddy taught you how to throw a punch before they locked him up?" He arches a taunting eyebrow. "Or did he teach you how to chop up bodies, too… bury them in the backyard?"

Dylan's whole body goes rigid. Before anyone can react, he launches forward and slams his fist intothatguy's jaw too, with a sickeningcrack!

The guy stumbles but comes back swinging. His bloody-nosed friend jumps back in, grabbing Dylan from behind. "Guess you can take the boy out of the psycho’s lair, but you can’t take the psycho out of the boy," he snarls, restraining Dylan’s arms so the other guy can lay into him.

Something in me snaps. I'm across the room in three strides, driving my fist into bloody-nose's face. The impact jars up my arm but his grip on Dylan loosens. Blood roars in my ears. Everything narrows down to fists and bodies and the need to keep these guys off Dylan.

A fist cracks across my jaw, snapping my head sideways. I stagger, catching myself against the wall. Before I can get my bearings, another punch slams into my ribs. Pain explodes through my chest. My ears ring, vision blurring at the edges.

Instinct takes over. I launch forward, driving my shoulder into the guy's chest. We crash into the wall.

"Hey!Hey—break it up!" The manager's voice cuts through the chaos as he pushes between us. "This isn't some roadhouse bar!" His face is red, veins popping on his neck.

The asshole who decked me straightens, and I drag my sleeve across my mouth, wiping away a smear of blood, my knuckles still curling. The guy's friend keeps his distance but fixes Dylan with a cold smirk.

"At least I didn't learn my moves from a serial killer," he slurs under his breath.

Dylan's face goes blank—a dangerous emptiness I haven't seen on him before. He rips free from the other guy's grip and hurls himself at the smirking asshole with inhuman speed. They crash into a table, sending drinks flying. The impact knocks them both to the ground in a tangle of fists and limbs.

I lunge forward to help but freeze when I catch sight of Dylan's face. His eyes are dead, emotionless, like he's somewhere else entirely. His fists keep pounding down mechanically, methodically.

"Dylan!" I shout, but he doesn't seem to hear me. His fist rises and falls, rises and falls.

Seb materializes next to me, with Silas on his heels. We grab Dylan's arms while the manager wraps around his torso. Even with four of us, Dylan's strength is insane—pure adrenaline and rage driving him to keep fighting.

"Get him off!" The manager's face is dripping with sweat from the exertion.

We drag Dylan back, his shoes scraping against the floor. He thrashes against our grip, muscles coiled tight as steel cables. His breath comes in sharp pants, like a cornered animal.

Scarlett pushes through the crowd that's formed around us. "Dylan. Hey… please…Please stop."She reaches for him, but I shake my head—he's too far gone right now.

"Breathe," she pleads, trying to catch his wild eyes. "You need to breathe. Those guys are not worth it."

Dylan jerks forward again, nearly breaking free. His face is blank but his body vibrates with barely contained violence. We tighten our grip, aware that any slack in our hold means he'll lunge straight for those assholes again.

Suddenly, the main doors burst open with a bang. Three uniformed officers stride in, hands on their belts. The crowd parts instantly.

Shiiiiit.

"Everyone stay where you are!" one officer barks, surveying the scene—the overturned table, shattered glass, the guy on the floor with blood running down his temple, my battered face… and four of us struggling to contain Dylan.

It goes without saying that bar fights are not something we get a lot of in Sandy Haven. More like a heated argument over the last gluten-free sconeat The Jumpin’ Bean, or a passive-aggressive note left on someone's Porsche windshield.

"Alright," the officer says, voice cutting through the chaos. "Anyone who threw a punch, you're coming down to the station. The rest of you—we'll need statements. And someone better have footage of how this started."

A dozen phones thrust forward, screens displaying different angles of the fight. The officer nods to his partners. "Get these boys separated and in cars." His radio crackles as his eyes sweep over the battered crew of brawlers.

His hard stare lingers on Dylan, recognition flickering across his weathered face. Dylan's shoulders tense under the scrutiny, his jaw clenched tight enough to crack teeth. The fight is finally draining from his body, but it's left something worse—a thousand-yard stare that makes him look broken and empty and utterly closed off.

The sharp tang of blood coats my tongue as I drag it along the inside of my cheek, and my ribs throb where that asshole caught me with a solid hit. But the pain barely registers through the ice in my veins as I watch the officer's expression shift.

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