Stalk Her

And then the man doing the beating moved toward the flickering streetlight, the one with the muted yellow glow, the light seeming dirty, far dirtier in this dank alleyway.

Butcher.

He stood menacingly over the drunk, who was now on the ground, looking up, his ugly face twisted in anger.

Again, I should have moved, should have run, but here I was, hypnotized by the violence, by the arousal of watching Butcher beat the fuck out of the man who assaulted me.

I felt my eyes widen as I watched Butcher slam his fist into the asshole’s jaw. Over and over again, repeatedly. And the drunk was no match, despite him trying to fight Butcher off. Despite the fact that all his moves were defensive ones.

Butcher’s muscles strained every time he reared his arm back and slammed his fist into the asshole’s face. God, I couldn’t move. I should. I should run, not stand here like a fucking idiot watching in awe the feral intensity that came from a man I didn’t even know, from a man who scared me but aroused me more.

And then the drunk stopped fighting. He just stopped. But Butcher didn’t. I took a step forward, a small one, and opened my mouth, not knowing what to say. He’d kill the man, and although I should let him, something inside me knew this had to stop. I had to put an end to this.

“Butcher.” I said his name softly, too soft for him to hear.

I swallowed as I watched him continue to fight. Not fight—destroy the other man.

“Butcher!” I yelled out his name, louder, clear. Fierce.

And I watched as his body went tight. Ramrod-straight.

I didn’t know what was about to happen, but for the first time in my life, I felt… safe.

Chapter Four

Butcher

I hadn’t seen her at first, hadn’t seen that fucker either. But I heard them, heard the sound of her body hitting something, the gasp of her surprise, of her fear.

Rage had risen up in me, bubbling in the pit of my stomach so all I saw was red, all I felt was violence.

It had only taken me a few seconds to find them, to see the blood on her face from his clear aggression. He’d had her pressed to the wall, his body against hers, his face by her neck.

Everything happened in slow motion as I went to him, as I pulled that fucker away from Poppy and just started wailing on him.

And right now, I saw nothing but red. I didn’t feel anything but violent delight.

Bone hitting bone.

Warm, sticky blood covered my knuckles and chest, splattering against my face. It was only when I heard her voice calling my name that I finally stopped, was finally able to stumble back.

I looked down at his still body, his face looking like raw meat, his chest rising and falling.

He was still alive. Lucky bastard.

I could feel his blood covering me, but I was used to this war paint. I welcomed it. And when I glanced over at where Poppy stood, seeing her wide-eyed expression, the shock, horror, and about a million other different emotions running across her face, something in me switched. It was like a light going off and on.

Off and on.

Dark and light.

I found myself stumbling toward her, feeling drunk although I wasn’t. The adrenaline was rushing through my body addictively, swiftly. It was like a high, this rush of being alive. She didn’t move, her back still pressed to the brick wall, her hands curled into tight little fists in front of her.

She was afraid; I could tell. I could practically smell it coming off her in waves. But she didn’t run from me.

I was now just a couple feet from her. I let my gaze travel over her face, the side of her cheek all scraped up and bruised, the blood starting to dry around her jaw.

I didn’t know what had gotten into me, why I’d gone so fucking insane. I’d never gotten violent like this before.

Never like this.

“You’re hurt,” I said, more to myself than to her. She still hadn’t moved, and as I lifted my hand, I was pleased, so fucking pleased, that she didn’t shy away, didn’t wince.

I ran the tips of my fingers along the edge of her wound, and the small sound that escaped her lips had me holding my breath, had my heart jackhammering in my chest, and had every possessive instinct in me rising.

“I’m fine,” she finally said, and I pulled my hand away, curling my fingers into my palm.

I shook my head. “You’re coming to the clubhouse. I’ll have our doctor look at you.” I had her hand in mine as I pulled her toward my SUV. But she resisted.

“No. I’m fine.”

I stopped and looked over my shoulder at her.

She pulled her hand from mine, and instantly I felt this coldness slam into me. I could tell she was strong. She was a fighter. And I knew she wouldn’t budge on this, and forcing my hand would only push her further away.