“You will never…” I connect with his stomach. “Touch her.” Another hit, high on his ribs. “Again.”
Then I attack. The sounds of his cries, the pain in my hands, the exertion of my breaths, all of it fades away as I bring the wrath of hell upon him. His arms shoot up, warding me off, but I pummel through it, hitting every exposed inch of his torso.
“Mr. Marceaux!” Ivory’s shout comes from behind me.
My insides seethe at her defiance. “Get in the goddamn car!”
Prescott tries to roll away, and I jerk him back, pounding my fists against his chest.
“Mr. Marceaux, stop!” She screams, closer now, inches away.
I’m in a zone, my tunnel vision consumed with blood and vengeance and broken bones. With each smack of my fists, her pleas and shouts no longer register…until her mouth moves so close, her breath brushes my ear.
“Emeric.”
I freeze mid-swing, my veins on fire to finish this.
Bending behind me, she snakes her arms over my shoulders, her chest against my back and her fingers digging into my shirt. With her face alongside mine, she whispers, “You won’t just lose your job. You’ll go to jail. He’s not worth it.”
I reach up and grip her hand against my heaving chest. “But you are. You’re worth it.”
She whimpers and squeezes my fingers. “I’m so sorry. I never meant—” She tries to pull me back. “Please. Take me home.”
Please. King of hell, that word on her lips.
I launch to my feet, knocking her backward with the surge of my body. With a hand on her arm to balance her, I thrust the other in the direction of my car. “I won’t tell you again.”
Eyes wide and glassy, she hugs the strap of the satchel against her shoulder and drags her feet to the GTO.
The sound of retching draws me back to Prescott. With his pants in place, he rocks on hands and knees and empties his stomach into a snarl of weeds, sobbing between each heave.
As I wait for him to finish, I pull in deep breaths and try to summon some semblance of control. I’m not a murderer. Hell, before Ivory, I hadn’t swung my fists since I was a testosterone-fueled teenager.
I glance at her, taking in her defeated posture and horrified expression as she lowers into my car. I shift my attention to my swollen hands, shocked to find them violently shaking. She’s turned me into a homicidal animal.
She’ll pay for letting this asshole into her body. But the bruises that’ll cover his torso for the next couple weeks? That’s on me.
“Get up.” I grab his hair, relishing his wailing cries as I haul him toward the Cadillac and shove him into the driver’s seat.
Tremors twitch along his skinny arms, his face pale and tear-soaked as he stares straight ahead. There’s no visible blood or swelling on any part of his exposed skin. If it weren’t for his pained expression and dirt-smeared clothes, no one would know I just beat the shit out of him.
With an arm braced on the top of the door, I lean in. “Look at me.”
He cowers, and his hands fly up to block his head. “Don’t hit me.”
My fists flex to strike, to feel his body giving beneath the force of my anguish, but I bury it, saving it. For Ivory.
Once he realizes I’m neither swinging nor going anywhere, he drags bloodshot eyes to mine.
“You have two choices.” I enunciate each word, softly, deliberately. “One. Tell no one what happened. Not a word about what you’ve been doing with Miss Westbrook. Let those bruises heal without revealing them to anyone, and that’ll be your only punishment for paying a girl for sex.”
His eyes narrow into a scathing glare.
I match his glare with one that makes him wither. “Two. Limp around like a fucking pussy. Tell the dean what you did to earn those injuries, and say goodbye to Leopold. Doesn’t matter how powerful my connections, there isn’t a conservatory in the world that will accept an applicant facing charges for buying sexual services.”
His eyes bulge. “I’m only seventeen!”
“That’s old enough to be charged as an adult and young enough to be the belle of the ball in state prison.”
“Oh God, oh God, this can’t be happening.” He wraps an arm around his stomach and gives me a pleading look. “You won’t tell my mom?”
I should’ve broken him. Should’ve left him in a bloody pile for the vultures to feed on. “This is between you and me. Keep your mouth shut, stay the fuck away from Miss Westbrook…and when I say stay away, I mean don’t think about her. Don’t talk to or look at her. Erase her from your fucking mind. Do that, and the dean won’t hear of your crime.”
“Okay.” He grips the steering wheel, nodding, swallowing. “I can do that.”