Page 57 of Hostile Vows
From out of nowhere, a hand seizes my wrist. “I’ll be your daddy.” A dark-haired guy wearing a red polo shirt perches on a bar stool next to his preppy friend, the two of them knocking back shots.
“Hardly.” I shirk out of his grip. “You’re a kid.”
“I’m twenty-five and old enough to be your big bad daddy.”
“I’d happily murder mine, so you should think twice… and back the fuck off.”
“Kinky.” He waggles his brows. “I’d let you choke me while you ride me like a Harley, baby.”
“Fucking creep,” I mutter.
In a beat, the asshole’s off the stool, his arm snaking my waist, the heat of his intoxicated breath close to my ear as he leans in. “I’ll let you call me ‘Daddy’ all night long.”
“What the hell is it with assholes today?” I growl, automatically turning into him and fist punching his throat. “Keep your hands to yourself, dickwad.”
I’m too busy watching the guy struggle for air to notice the commotion unfold around me. From behind the bar, David swears like I’ve just killed someone. I would have done a lot worse if we were back home in The Rusty Shamrock. The drunk friend bounces to his feet, bravely waving his fists at me.
“What the fuck, you freaky bitchhh!” he slurs.
An eclipse steals the heat of the sun when a dark tornado obliterates everything in sight. I’m suddenly surrounded by plainclothes guards, all of them pointing weapons at the two drunk guys. However, that's not what sucks the air from my lungs.
It’s my husband and the storm that comes with him.
His nostrils flare, the onslaught of a seething temper revealing a beguiling beast unlike anything I’ve ever seen. He’s too far gone in his rage to meet my wide eyes. His own are laser-focused on the man who’s gasping for oxygen in the wake of my quick jab to his Adam's apple.
André lunges between us. He wrestles with him until he wins possession of the man’s left hand and stabs it dead center with a steak knife, securing his palm to the wooden counter beneath. A bloodcurdling scream of pain silences the entire bar, so only music can be heard. Without hesitation and chaotically methodical, André moves to the guy's opposite hand, pulling a switchblade from his pocket and driving it through the man’s tendons.
“What the fuck?” his victim howls.
André hunches over him, his face right up close and ruthless fingers tugging his head back. “Who the fuck do you think you are, cabron? You think you can drink inmyhotel and put your dirty fucking hands onmywife, too?”
His hotel.
I’m so stupid, so terribly stupid.
A glass smashes to my left, but my gaze never leaves André. His harsh expression is nothing short of diabolical. “Apologize to my wife for being disrespectful.”
Frantic eyes hunt mine. I’d rather not look at the guy pinned in place like a rat caught in a trap, but I dread the fallout if I don’t.
“You… can’t… get away… with this,” he spits out.
In a flash, André uncovers a matte black revolver from inside his biker jacket and jams the barrel under the guy's chin. The men circling the scene move closer to hide their boss' lethal actions.
“I’m a Souza, you piece of shit, and that beautiful woman you thought you could touch is a Souza too. She’s a fucking goddess and you’re the ugly fucking scum she stepped in. And you know what that means, don’t you, cabron?” André’s voice is void of emotion—stone cold.
“I’m s… s… orry.”
No one else speaks. Obedient soldiers don’t challenge my husband's judgment; instead, they tighten up their ranks to guard him.
“Sorry—Mrs. Souza.” André exaggerates my new surname. “Address my wife properly.”
“André,” I say his name loud and clear, not sure if he’ll listen. “I had it under control. Stop this—”
He angles his head in my direction, keeping the threat of his gun firmly in place. There’s a second where the world stops and the music vanishes. His temper momentarily fades. In the reprieve, I find the untamed gaze of my devoted friend. Amid mayhem, an indecipherable emotion flashes behind his carbon-black eyes, a haunted regard that I dare not read into.
Without dropping eye contact, he runs his tongue over his upper teeth and narrows his eyes, bordering whatever violent act his irrational nature considers fitting.
Slowly, on the edge of reason, André unclasps his fingers, rolls back his shoulders, and straightens as if his volatile mood has found an anchor. He stands before me, thick hair tumbling over his brow in that messy way he wears so well. Every inch of his towering form is taut and rigid, his rationality barely in check.
