Page 80 of Protect Thy Enemy

I watch him work, his movements efficient and almost hypnotic. The glass slides across the counter toward me a moment later, amber liquid swirling as he sets it down.

“On the house, for a pretty lady,” he says, leaning in just slightly.

I raise a brow, my lips curving into a smirk. “Flattery gets you everywhere, doesn’t it?”

He chuckles, leaning on the counter as his dark eyes hold mine. “Only when it’s true.”

I take a slow sip of the whiskey, the burn spreading through my chest, dulling the sharp edges of my irritation. “Thanks,” I say, my tone light and teasing.

“Anytime,” he replies, his gaze lingering for just a moment longer before he moves to serve someone else.

I nurse my drink, letting the buzz settle in as I survey the room. It’s been too long since I’ve let myself unwind like this and done anything just for me. The thought makes me smirk bitterly against the rim of the glass. The last time I got laid feels like another lifetime.

“You dance as good as you look?”

The confident and deep voice comes from behind me. I turn, coming face-to-face with a man who looks startlingly similar to the bartender, with the same sharp features and the same tattoos snaking down his arms. Brothers, maybe.

“Wanna find out?” I say, setting my glass down.

He doesn’t wait for me to change my mind, taking my hand and leading me onto the dance floor. The music shifts to something slower, the bassline heavy and deliberate. He moves behind me, his hands light on my hips, guiding me to the rhythm.

It’s easy and effortless, but there’s nothing personal about it. It’s a distraction, just like the whiskey.

I close my eyes, letting the music wash over me. When I open them again, he’s slipped back into the crowd without a word.

I don’t have time to process it before I feel him.

Heat radiates against my back, the familiar presence making my breath hitch. I don’t have to look to know who it is.

Holden.

He’s close, his chest brushing against me as his hands settle on my hips. His firm touch is possessive, and I feel the tension in him, the restraint barely holding him together.

“You think this is funny?” he growls, his breath hot against my ear. “Running off, acting like a bad little wife?”

The words send a shiver racing down my spine, sharp and electric.

I don’t respond, my body moving instinctively to the rhythm, and his hands tighten in response. His fingers glide over thecurve of my hips, down to my thighs, and back up again, setting every nerve in my body alight.

“You like being trouble, don’t you?” he murmurs, his dark voice full of restrained fury.

I tilt my head back just enough for his breath to skim over my jaw, the proximity intoxicating. “You followed me,” I challenge.

His grip tightens, his thumbs brushing just under the hem of my shirt, the contact searing. “You made me.”

I press back against him, a slow, deliberate movement that draws a low growl from his throat. The music fades into the background, the world narrowing to just this—his hands, his voice, and the heat of him against me.

“Do you like making me angry, wife?” he whispers, his lips grazing the shell of my ear.

“Maybe,” I say, my voice breathy, teasing.

“You shouldn’t,” he growls, his hands sliding higher, every touch a silent warning.

But I do. God, I do.

His hands find my waist again, pulling me tighter against him as the tension between us builds, slow and heavy, like a storm gathering on the horizon.

For a moment, it feels like the rest of the room disappears—the crowd, the music, everything fades into nothingness. It’s just him and me, the space between us crackling with a heat threatening to consume us both.

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