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The violence coils in my chest, black and hungry, demanding its pound of flesh. It takes every ounce of the control I’ve spent sixty years cultivating to keep myself rooted to this spot instead of painting his foyer walls red with his fucking intestines.

Preston must see some fraction of that rage in my eyes, because he takes a step back. Then another.

I don’t advance on him. I don’t need to. I simply walk forward at a measured pace as he keeps scurrying away. When his back hits the edge of his piano, though, he’s run out of room to flee.

“You touched something that belongs to me tonight,” I inform him.

Preston’s laugh is wheezy and anxious. “Lukas, come on. We were just talking. She’s your assistant; I didn’t realize you two were?—”

“Oh, you realized.”

I watch the moment true fear flares in his eyes. He’s no fool. He knows he’s fucked.

“I’m a reasonable man, Preston.” I adjust my cuff. “I believe in proportional responses. You put your hands on her, so I’m going to take something from you in return.”

From my jacket pocket, I produce a pair of pliers. The metal gleams dully in the lamp light as I set them on the piano’s closed lid.

I turn and walk away. “Here’s how this works,” I say, settling into a leather armchair. I cross one leg over the other, perfectly at ease. “You’re going to pull out one of your own teeth. Your choice which one. I’m not particular.”

Preston stares at the pliers in horror.

“Or,” I continue, “I will remove several. Along with other pieces you might miss more.” My gaze drops meaningfully below his belt.

The color drains from his face in stages, from pink to grey to corpse-white. “You’re fucking insane,” he whispers.

I reach out, pluck the scotch from his trembling hand, then lean back in the chair and sip it.

“Rae seemed to be quite wrapped up in your smile tonight,” I say. “Let’s see if she still thinks it’s nice after this.”

I gesture toward the pliers with an open palm.

“Whenever you’re ready, Preston. I have all night.”

When it’s over, Preston is collapsed against the piano, a huddled wreck. The pliers lie on the hardwood floor, alongside the bloody stump of his molar. He’s crying, bleeding, and—judging by the dark stain spreading across his cashmere loungewear—pissing himself. Pathetic whimpers escape through the hole in his gum line.

I stand and smooth my jacket, then drain what’s left of his scotch in one long swallow. The man is a fucking swine, but he does have good taste in booze.

When it’s empty, I drop the glass.

Preston screamswhen it hits the floor and shatters. He scrambles backward, pressing himself against the piano like he can teleport through it and escape from me.

I bend down until my lips are inches from his ear. “If you eventhinkher name again,” I hiss, “I’ll come back for the rest. Do you understand?”

He sobs and nods frantically. Blood and snot drip down his chin.

I pat him on the back. Then I adjust my cuffs and walk back out into the night, leaving Preston Howell bleeding and broken behind me.

Let that be a fucking lesson, my friend.

Never.

Touch.

What’s.

Mine.

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