Page 27 of Moonlit Nights & Northern Lights
“Get your hands off him! He’s drunk out of his mind!” I shouted over the music.
Bradley looked at me, confusion crossing his features. “What?”
My last thread of control shattered. The headache, the crowd’s emotions bleeding through my broken shields, the sight of Rory being manhandled—it all crashed together into a mess of fury I couldn’t untangle. But watching Bradley’s hands roam over him while he was too drunk to properly consent triggered something primitive in me, something that had nothing to do with police protocol and everything to do with an instinct I didn’t want to examine.
“I said, he’smine!”
The words hung between us, shocking even me. My face flushed hot, but I didn’t back down. It was easier this way—easier than explaining duty of care, or that Dominic had kicked the pair of us out.
Bradley’s eyes widened as he took in my height, my stance, the fury radiating from me. His gaze flicked between Rory and me, and understanding dawned on his face.
“Oh!” He raised his hands and stepped back, sending Rory stumbling so violently I had to catch him. “Not my fault, dude. He practically threw himself at me!”
I fought the sudden, violent urge to grab that pretentious man bun and yank it right off his head. Luckily for him, after one more grimace in our direction, he twisted, disappearing into the crowd. Hopefully, by the time Brody found him, we’d be gone.
My brain took a moment to register that Rory was now fully leaning against me, his hands fisting the fabric of my shirt. The pain pulsing behind my eyes made everything feel slightly surreal, like I was watching the scene unfold from a distance.
Rory’s face lit up with recognition, as if he’d just realised who I was. “Teddy!” he exclaimed, blinking up at me.
I placed my hands around Rory’s waist to steady him—and immediately regretted it. My fingers found bare skin through the gaps in that ridiculous mesh shirt he was wearing. The contact sent a shiver up my arms, making me acutely aware of how warm he felt, how solid his smaller frame was.
“We need to go,” I said, trying to pry him off me while keeping him upright. “Dominic’s kicked us out.”
Rory didn’t seem to register my words. Instead, he reached up, fingers gently tracing over my cheekbone, sending pleasant tingles dancing across my skin. “Where are your glasses?” he asked, his voice laced with genuine confusion.
“What?” I said, thrown by the question. “I’m wearing contacts. Have been all night.”
Rory’s brow furrowed as he processed this information, swaying slightly in my grip. His thumb slipped, rasping against my stubble in a gesture that felt almost tender.
“For fuck’s sake, Rory,” I snapped. “How many more drinks did you manage to consume in the ten minutes I left you?” Clearly his inebriation had reached dire levels, if Rory Thorne was stroking my face.
Instead of answering, Rory’s attention shifted to my mouth. “You’re hurt!” he exclaimed, his expression morphing into one of genuine concern. His fingers moved to my split lip, touching it with surprising gentleness. “What happened?”
The unexpected care in his voice caught me off guard. In the time I’d known Rory Thorne, I’d seen him angry, defiant, sarcastic, even frightened, but never this openly concerned. Especially not for me. It was… disturbing.
“It’s nothing,” I said, removing his hand from my face and putting slight distance between us. “Just a disagreement with our friend Brody. While you’ve been drinking like a fish, I’ve actually been gathering information.”
Rory’s face hardened, his concern vanishing. He pulled away from me, swaying slightly.
“I was working as well,” he insisted, voice sharp despite the slight slur. “What, you think I was just having fun? Bradley bought me that drink. I had to accept it or blow my cover.”
“Your cover,” I repeated flatly. “As what? The most enthusiastic dance partner in London?”
…why does he always think I’m so bloody stupid…
“As someone interested in him!” Rory shot back, crossing his arms defensively. “You can’t just openly interrogate people. Some of us have to be subtle.”
I massaged my forehead, feeling the migraine intensify. “Fine. Did your ‘subtle approach’ yield any useful information about Dev?”
Rory’s defiance crumbled slightly. He looked away, shoulders slumping. “No,” he admitted. “We didn’t quite get to Dev. He just kept suggesting we head back to his place.”
“Fantastic,” I muttered, grabbing his arm. “Let’s go, before Dominic has our heads on a plate.”
I steered him toward the stairs, my hand firmly on his elbow to keep him from stumbling. The throbbing bass seemed to match the poundingin my skull, each beat driving the pain deeper, like a hammer striking the same tender nerve with metronome precision.
A hand clamped down on my arm. A female bartender stared at me with undisguised annoyance.
“Your friend hasn’t paid his tab.”
