Page 86 of Pride: The Rogue
He wanted to rip his jacket and shirt open, bare his chest, beat at himself like a savage animal, and then descend upon the one who’d dare besmirch Livian, all over again. He wanted to drag out the battle; toy with Scott like the filthy, inferior, prey he was, pulverize him until his own mother wouldn’t recognize him, and then feast upon his remains.
Shaking, Latimer scraped a hand through his damp hair.
What is happening to me?
Except, he knew, and it wasn’t a ‘what’ it was a ‘who’. Something about the winsome beauty, a bloody stranger to him almost two days ago, had Latimer all twisted up in knots.
His pulse hammered in his ears, and the sounds of taproom revelry came muffled as if down the length of an enormous, empty hall.
For him, a man who’d always been in full control of himself, his feelings, thoughts, and emotions and didn’t give a shite about anyone or anything beyond himself and his business goals, Livian’s ability to get under his skin—and stay there—represented the greatest peril he’d ever faced.
Go. Flee. Get the hell out of here. Save yourself.
It’s what he’d always done first and best—look after his self-interests.
Latimer needed to get away from Livian and fast. He had business to see to. Hell, a duchess to marry. Livian, the doe-eyed, clever, spirited, beauty stood in the way of everything.
With that sobering reminder, he took a quick step toward his rented room and stopped on unsteady feet.
Disoriented, Latimer looked down at the softly moaning, still knocked-out, bastard.
Were he to leave Livian to her own devices, any harm could—and would—befall her.
Mad. I’m going…
“Lachlan?”
That soft, hesitant, but familiar, musical voice penetrated the chaos spiraling inside him.
Wordlessly, he turned.
Livian, attired in a modest white wrapper and nightshift, stood there. She looked from Latimer to Scott and finally settled her big, luminescent,innocenteyes on Latimer.
Fuck.
Livian couldn’t sleep. Nor had it been the sounds of a short but violent fight outside her rooms that accounted for her sleeplessness.
That afternoon, after she’d returned with Caleb, she’d returned abovestairs and thought about Lachlan: the way he made her feel. The way he worried about her. The wicked and wonderful way he’d made her body come alive with passion. And the dream of a life with someone like him.
No, not someone like him.
Him.
“Lachlan,” she ventured, when he remained stock-still, his eyes glazed with rage, shock, and something akin to confusion.
Worriedly, she hurried from her room and rushed over. “Are you all right?” she asked, as she reached him. “Did he hurt y—?” Her question ended on a shuddery gasp as he took her wrist in his hand.
“Does it look like he hurt me?” he asked sharply.
Unnerved by this tightly coiled and never-before-seen side of him, she floundered for words. “N-No,” she said, shaking her head.
“Damned right he didn’t, sweetheart,” he barked.
Lachlan released her with such alacrity and force, she stumbled.
“Because I wasn’t his target.” He peeled his lip up in a sneer. “You, however, darlin’ could have been.”
Livian puzzled her brow.
