Page 79 of The Wolf of Mayfair
The stallion took flight.
All around them passing festivalgoers shouted and raised their fists in outrage. Uncaring about all of them, uncaring about any but one, he only urged his horse into a breakneck pace.
The closer he drew to Helia and the man who dared to put his hands upon her, Wingrave registered new details: the tracks of tears upon her cheeks.
An unholy rage consumed him—that fury an unrelenting conflagration whose flames swallowed him from the inside out.
He’d made her cry.
That would be the fool’s last act.
Sharpening his gaze on the one who’d dared touch her, Wingrave slowed his approach so as to not trample Helia.
The pair, engaged in a struggle, looked up.
Helia’s eyes gleamed with a joy and relief that filled him in every corner.
Wingrave, however, tunneled all his focus on the weather-beaten bastard.
The stranger’s harsh, angled features conveyed shock.
Helia took advantage of her captor’s distracted state and bolted away.
Wingrave jumped off his mount and launched himself at the other man, greeting him with a fist to the face.
The compact man’s head went flying back. Blood spurted like a crimson geyser from his already crooked, hooked nose; however, impressively, he retained his feet.
Not surrendering his advantage, Wingrave struck another blow, this time to the bastard’s right cheek. Then, in rapid succession, Wingrave brought a right hook to the man’s left.
That at last managed to take the whoreson to his knees.
His chest heaving, Wingrave was on the shit-sack in an instant.
He sent his foot flying and caught Helia’s offender square in his hard, flat stomach. The force of that collision brought his opponentdown on his back. Another time connecting with that solid wall of muscle would have hurt like hell.
Not now. Now, a mindless, bestial wrath raged within at the man who’d dared touch her.
“Anthony!”
Wingrave hurled himself atop the prone figure. He continued to beat the already bloodied face, finding a barbaric satisfaction in doing so. “I’ll kill you,” he rasped between each blow.
Something soft landed on his shoulder. Snarling, he shrugged it off.
In his mind, he saw only Helia.
He punched the bastard again.
Helia, with her tear-streaked face.
And again.
The bastard’s hands upon her.
And again.
“Anthony!”
In the end, Wingrave’s given name emerged in the form of a strident cry, managing to cut into his mindless assault.
