Ryker

“She thinks she’s better than us because of all her degrees,” Mikkel says in his heavy Swedish accent, which oddly is more understandable when he’s drunk.

Claude nods his head vigorously and almost falls over from the movement. “Exactly, dude,” he says while dramatically pointing at Mikkel. “It’s why I want to knock that look off her face. I bet she wouldn’t look so high and mighty if I shoved my dick down her throat.”

My fists clench and I straighten up to my full height. Mikkel and Sam both laugh hard, and it eggs Claude on.

“She may not know shit about hockey, but damn…she is a fine piece of ass,” Claude chortles, and grabs on to the bar for stability.

The back of my neck prickles with my hair standing on end and my face flushes hot. I think Alex says something to me but it really doesn’t penetrate.

It doesn’t penetrate because my eyes are lasered onto Claude and I see something dark and ugly filter into his eyes. His voice doesn’t sound so slurred and he practically snarls with menace. “I should take that fine ass of hers and fuck it hard. Make that bitch learn her place.”

Fury such as I have never known seems to take over my body. My eyesight dims along the peripheral edges of my vision and all sound becomes muted except for the singularly disgusting noise of Claude laughing darkly over his proclamation. I push off from the bar, everything feeling super slo-mo to me. Even Claude’s evil laugh comes out of his mouth slow and distorted, like it’s being filtered through mud.

It takes me only one long-legged step until I’m on him. He sees me…eyes confused for a moment and then round with fear as I lower my shoulder and plow into him.

Then everything speeds up.

I drive into him with every bit of my Brick Wall reputation, right over the top of the bar stools that are behind him and down onto the hardwood floor. One of the stools topples over and hits me in the temple. I feel a warm trickle of blood that slides down and along my jaw and that actually titillates me. It induces blood lust.

Claude lets out a grunt of pain as his lungs deflate from the force of the tackle and my weight coming down on top of him. But it’s not enough pain.

I get in one, two, three quick punches—right hand to left cheekbone—and I actually laugh with evil malice when his skin splits open on the third strike. I raise my fist for another, wanting to see blood splatter, but then I’m being pulled backward with a solid arm locked around my throat.

Suddenly I hear the noise all around me again, mostly Alex growling in my ear, “You need to calm the fuck down.”

Mikkel helps Claude from the floor while Sam grabs a rag from the bartender and presses it to the cut on his face. Claude glares at me. “What the fuck, Evans?”

I raise a hand and point a shaky finger at him. It’s shaky because I’m still consumed by rage and it hasn’t been properly expelled, and the only thing holding me back is the throat-lock Alex has on me.

“You do not talk about her that way,” I say in a guttural voice. My words come out measured…laced with the promise of retaliation. I don’t need to say her name. We all know who’s the subject of the conversation.

“What’s it to you?” he sneers, leaning forward, but I know he feels brave because Alex is holding me back.

“She’s our boss, you asshole. She signs your paychecks. Do you think that’s acceptable what you just said?”

“I’m just having some fun,” he mutters like a petulant child. “Christ…don’t get so bent out of shape.”

And that right there sets me off again. I pull away from Alex’s grasp so quickly he can’t react. I break his grip and lunge at Claude, grabbing him by the throat. He gives a terrified squeak as I pull him toward me.

When we’re almost nose to nose, I do nothing more than murmur these words to him: “You talk like that about her again, you better hope there’s an ambulance nearby, because you will need it.”

He just glares at me, trying to show me he’s not intimidated. But I can feel the nervous swallow he’s pushing down his throat underneath my palm. I don’t wait for an answer that he understands me. I don’t force him to give it, because I know he won’t. He may have just had his ass handed to him, but it doesn’t mean that he’s cowed in any way. I know young fucks like him and they think they know everything. You add on fame and fortune because he’s a professional hockey player, that makes him feel invincible. I can see it in his eyes…even at this moment. He thinks he’s better than Gray. He thinks he’s so valuable to this team that she’ll bend to him and not the other way around.

I can see in his eyes that he is going to be trouble down the road.

A hand touches my shoulder. “Let’s go,” Alex says calmly.

I release Claude and turn away from him. I give him my back and almost hope he leaps at my blind side. I’ve still got a lot of ass whooping left inside of me, but he does nothing.

Silently, Alex and I head through the lobby and into the elevators. He follows me to my room and walks right in behind me.

“You need to have that cut sealed,” he says as I throw the room key down on the bedside table.

I reach my hand up and it comes away wet with blood. I don’t respond to Alex but walk into the bathroom and grab a hand towel, pressing it to my temple. I don’t even bother to look at it in the mirror.

When I walk out, I find Alex sitting on my bed with a grave look on his face. I find that in the few moments that it’s taken to leave the bar downstairs and get up to my room, I’ve calmed considerably. I also know I overreacted and probably wouldn’t have done so had I not been inebriated.