Page 181 of Property of Whiskey

Whiskey looks at me.

I close my eyes. “Cal.”

His eyebrows rise. “Fiancé?”

“Ex-fiancé.”

Cal appears in the hallway and stops dead. He’s still wearing station pants and a dark T-shirt with PARADISE FIRE across the chest, his brown hair slightly damp at the temples like he came straight from work.

Same clean jaw. Same familiar eyes that once made me feel safe.

Then those eyes land on Whiskey. Nothing about Cal looks safe anymore. “What the fuck?”

“Cal.”

He crosses the bedroom fast. “Are you okay?”

“Yes.”

His attention drops to my wrists.

The cuff marks have faded, but they’re still visible. I curl my hands toward my palms too late to hide them.

His face drains white before fury puts the color back.

“What did he do to you?”

Whiskey takes one step.

I put my palm against his chest. “No.”

“I ain’t doing anything.”

“He ain’t hurt me.”

Cal looks at my hand on Whiskey, then at me. “You’re protecting him?”

“No.”

“Sheriff said someone kidnapped you.” Cal’s eyes snap toward Whiskey.

Whiskey exhales. “Really wish everybody would quit leading with that.”

Cal swings.

Whiskey catches his wrist before the punch gets halfway there.

Fast.

Too damn fast.

He turns Cal’s arm only enough to stop the hit, not enough to wrench the joint.

“Don’t.”

“Let me go.”

“Happy to.”