He glanced around, taking in the crowd. I caught sight of the woman again, all hips and breasts, her miniskirt barely covering her crotch and her tube top covering just a strip of her middle. Her jewelry glittered, layered on her chest. I watched, transfixed like a magpie, an effect of my exhaustion. I could think of at least three outfits I had that would look great with that collection of jewelry. If only it was in vogue to steal so I wouldn’t have to go shopping.
It didn’t dawn on me that she had drifted a little too close until Austin stiffened, curling his hand around my far shoulder and turning, using body language to advertise that he was with me. I looked at her face; her makeup was a bit smeared from heavy drinking and her lips twisted in a hungry though taunting sort of way.
“Mmm, I like me an older man,” she purred, slowing.
I could feel my eyebrows lowering and wondered if she thought that was a flattering thing to say, calling Austin an older man. Didn’t men take that as the insult women had been taught to?
But when her gaze roamed his broad shoulders, dipped to his defined chest, evident even through his nondescript cotton top, and settled on his package, the logical part of my brain dimmed. Rage as hot as Cyra’s magma bubbled up out of nowhere. My whole being throbbed with it, pulsing with power.
My scope of vision reduced down to the woman, turning a little as she slunk by, her fingertips trailing across her cleavage, tinkling those stylish necklaces. Her predatory gaze darted to me.
She had no idea what a predator really was.
She had no idea who she was challenging.
I pushed Austin away and stood from my seat, power pumping, ballooning out. That distant part of me, the logical part, screamed at me to stop. To control the magic. To reel it back in.
I shouldn’t reveal my power to so many innocent bystanders, and I definitely couldn’t go after a Jane!
But none of that would register.
My wings itched at my back, my gargoyle threatening to claw its way out, and a pinkish-purple sheen vibrated into being around my body, trailing my movements.
I could have sworn a bell rang in the distance. A death knell. I couldn’t tell if it was my imagination, or if Ivy House was fueling the fire, telling me to protect what was mine.
Mine.
A stocky woman with white-blonde hair—Isabelle—stepped forward suddenly and rammed into the younger woman, knocking her sideways into a crowd of male shifters watching the scene with grim faces. She screamed as she tried to correct on four-inch stilettos, but the excessive alcohol hindered her movements. She scrabbled at one of the shifters as she fell, trying to grasp an arm or a hand.
The man, a newer guy I’d seen patrolling the streets in jeans and a white shirt, pulled his hands away and stepped back, getting out of her way. The others followed suit, letting her fall.
“Oh my God, what the hell?” the woman demanded, fighting with her long, wavy blonde hair as she tried to look around.
“He’s taken,” Isabelle said, looking down on her.
“You bitch,” the woman yelled, pushing to her knees, but Isabelle was already walking away, her message delivered.
The newer guy looked down at the woman, his face impassive. “If you’re smart, you’ll never look at him again, not even when he’s talking to you. Best to take the warning.”
“Oh my God, Brittany, what happened?” Two other women descended, having heard their friend’s cries, and pushed through the crowd to get to her. “Who did this to you?”
“Hold my earrings. I’ll deal with this,” said one of them, a girl with short red hair and big hoop earrings.
“That big bitch that just walked out.” The first woman let her friends haul her to her feet, all of them swaying like new sailors on a boat in stormy seas. “Forget her. It’s not worth it.” Isabelle might have been the one who’d shoved her—and I knew exactly how that felt—but the woman had clearly sensed something from me, even if she didn’t understand it. She speared me with a glance, hatred burning deep in her red-rimmed eyes. “Whore.”
She spun and let her friends help her away, but they weren’t agitated enough to leave the bar—they just headed back to their seats. The loud guys I’d heard earlier were probably waiting for them.
“Those Dicks down there are going to take offense for their friend,” Niamh murmured, then took a sip of her drink. “They’ll probably start a row.”
“Nah.” Austin had hardly moved, watching me with hunger plain in his eyes. “They aren’t friends; they’re just trying to get laid. They’re cowards. If they don’t convince the girls to leave, I’ll have someone escort them out before things…escalate.”