Page 57 of Veiled Vengeance

Asher stands behind my stool as I rest my feet and sip my rosemary vodka tonic. I lean my head back against his chest, and he wraps an arm around me. The music is too loud for a normal conversation, so we speak with light touches and flirty glances.

I’m jostled when a man pushes his way past the waiting line to get to the bartender fixing drinks across from me. Leaning too far to the right, I almost fall off the stool. I brace for the impact, but it never comes. Asher’s quick reflexes have him reacting without thought and he rights me on the stool.

“Hey! I want a drink!” The pushy man’s whiny voice can barely be heard over the music.

Ew.

The bartender’s expression indicates he recognizes the man, and he stops in the middle of making a margarita to quickly whip up a martini with extra olives.

The man has a baby face and gelled blond hair. His clothes scream rich yacht club and “I live off of Daddy’s money.” He looks like he just turned twenty-one yesterday.

Asher glares at the man as he leans against the bar and takes a big gulp of his drink. I tap Asher’s hand and shake my head. Asher reigns in his anger as his jaw tenses, and he places his hands on my shoulders.

The man turns to me. He looks me up and down with calculation in his eyes, completely ignoring Asher’s hands on me.

Fucking hell. I’m going to need a shower.

“How much?” he asks with a creepy half-smile.

Asher’s grip on my shoulders tightens.

“Excuse me?” I furrow my eyebrows.

“For the night. How much?” He looks me up and down again, his eyes snagging on my cleavage. “With that dress and those legs . . . five thousand.”

Is this bitch asking for what I think he’s asking for?

Asher’s hands begin to quiver.

My jaw drops at this fucker’s proposition. He must have had a gallon of audacity with his morning coffee.

The man places his sweaty palm on my knee and leans close. “I may even let you come, too,” he adds with a wink.

Is that supposed to sweeten this bullshit deal?

I place my hand on Asher’s, reassuring him that I’ve got this, but I know he’s ready to explode.

The man’s thumb strokes the inside of my knee.

Giving him a fake smile, I grab his wrist and pull it to an unnatural angle. He drops his martini on the floor and the glass breaks as he shouts in pain.

His other hand rears back to slap my face. I dodge and twist his wrist further, so he has no choice but to fall against the bar. He tries to push up, but I push down with my upper body.

The only action he’s going to get tonight is my boobs against his back because I’ll fucking castrate this prick.

“What the fuck!”

I bring my mouth to his ear. “Touch me again, and I’ll fucking kill you. Slowly.” I give him one more shove, then let go and sit back down on my stool. Waving my hand in the air, I ignore the gawking bystanders and shout at the bartender. “We need another drink over here!”

The man is panting as he stands. His chin raises, and his eyes seem to bulge. “No cunt is worth your brand of crazy.”

In a flash, the man is on the floor with three scary-looking fuckers surrounding him. A few people gasp and back away. Some don’t even notice what’s going on.

Those are my men.

Zane places his foot on the man’s chest. “You’re lucky. She was going to let you walk away with nothing more than a few strained muscles.”

Rio crouches down and shakes his head. “But you had to go and touch what isn’t yours.”

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