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Back inside, I can see the look on Vice’s face and know he’s not going to drop it at all. Tension fills the air as Vice starts right back up where he left off. “I mean, I don’t know anyone who doesn’t want her number, but I’ve never seen her give it out.” His voice is casual, taunting—a red flag waving that has my temper ready to charge. He’s trying to get me to confirm his suspicion that I like her. I’d rather die than give up that knowledge.
Still, my vision tunnels and blood rushes in my ears.
“I bet he’s the first one. He really pulled her in with that sad act.” Vice seems to have no idea how much danger he’s in.
I turn, my body coiled with anger and released in one fluid motion. My fist connects with Vice’s face—hard. There's a sharp pain under my knuckle and the impact reverberates up my arm.
I hear Isla scream.
Vice hits the floor with a thud, a hand to his mouth, shock painted across his face before it shifts into something darker. He looks up at me, and our eyes lock. The message is clear: he knows. He knows how deep I'm in over Isla.
“Stop right now!” Isla's voice cuts through the rush of my fury, her tone sharp and commanding. I half-admire and half-resent her for daring to give me an order. No one else has the guts to confront me like that.
“Damn,” Vice mutters, swiping away the blood that trickles from his lip with his thumb and looking at the red smear. In a flash, he's on his feet, his own anger rising as red hot and ready to go as mine. We're locked in combat, throwing punches that miss more often than not. We’re too evenly matched, but the few hits we get are sharp, hard, and so satisfying.
He rushes at me, his shoulder at waist height and takes me down. In a moment he’s on me, his fists ready. Every hit is a release valve for the pressure building inside me. A left hook catches my jaw; I retaliate with a blow to his ribs. It’s savage, it’s primal, and God, it feels good. Pain flares across my skin and adrenaline pumps through my veins like liquid fire.
Eventually, our energy wanes, our movements sluggish. We break apart, both of us panting, sprawled on our backs on the floor. The ceiling spins slightly above us.
“Jesus,” Vice says, his chest heaving.
“Yeah.” I agree with him, the single word scraping out of my throat.
We haven’t fought like that in a long damn time, but I’ve missed it.
Around us, the crowd is a mixture of reactions. Some patrons laugh, others exchange worried glances, while a few deliberately ignore the spectacle. Money exchanges hands quietly, the result of bets placed on our brawl. Who would win—the ex-gang member raging because his woman is being admired by another, or his long time, ex-gang member friend who managed to get a secret out of me before this whole thing started?
I lie there, trying to catch my breath, feeling the sweat that clings to my forehead and dampens my hair. It's moments like these when I wonder if I've really changed at all.
I see the bucket tip and water hits us like an icy shockwave, drenching through the fine fabric of my shirt and Vice's, too, instantly clinging to our heated skin. We spring up, soaked to the bone as gasps and snickers from the onlookers meet our ears.
“We stopped!” Vice roars, swiping water from his eyes.
“Both of you need to cool it!” Isla's tone is both fierce and uncompromising. She’s on her knees, upright on the bar, the empty bucket dangling from her grasp like she’s considering throwing it at us.
I square my shoulders, water dripping from my hair, my gaze locked on hers. Fear flickers in Isla's eyes, a silent recognition of the trouble she's just unleashed. And then she's off, darting away like a startled deer.
The chase is instinctual, predatory. I’m on my feet, my boots pounding against the slick floor, every stride fueled by a fury that demands satisfaction. I catch her scent, that intoxicating sweet floral hint, as I corner her in the break room.
“Don’t you ever do that again,” I growl, pinning her arms to the wall above her head with an iron grip. The fear in her eyes is palpable, yet her lips, those defiant, tempting curves, are fixed in a position of annoyance.
“It got you to stop, didn't it?” she asks, her voice a daring challenge.
“We were already stopped.” But as the words hang between us, I realize our bodies are achingly close. Her breaths are short and ragged against my chest, her pulse thrumming wildly beneath my fingertips.
“Stop fighting and I'll stop getting involved.” Her strained voice only enflames the heat within me.
A shiver bolts through me, sparked by her closeness. Excitement dances in her eyes, mingling with a trace of fear – a cocktail of emotions that sends a jolt of desire straight to my core.
For a moment, neither of us moves, the world reduced to the space where our bodies press together. Then, slowly, reluctantly, I release her, stepping back to put some semblance of distance between us. But the heat remains.
She gasps for air as though I've been holding her breath hostage. Without another word, I turn on my heel, every muscle tight with need and frustration. I walk through the crowded bar, the rowdy laughter and clinking glasses telling me that everyone has already forgotten what they witnessed… or they don’t care.
Barging into my office, I slam the door shut, leaning against the cold wood as I try to compose myself. My heart hammers against my ribcage like it's trying to break free. The image of Isla, defiant and fiery, is burned into my mind, fueling the liquid desire that courses through my veins. Her scent lingers on my skin—something wild and untamed that calls to the most primal part of me.
“Dammit, Isla,” I mutter under my breath, raking a hand through my damp hair. The cool darkness of my office offers no relief. I can still feel her softness pressed against me, the heat of her body leaving me aching to feel more of her without barriers.
My thoughts spiral, images of her sprawled beneath me, legs wrapped around my waist, lips parted in ecstasy. It's too much. I need distance, space to breathe, to think. To not be consumed by the desire to claim her, to mark her as mine.
