Sebastian punctuated the last word with a hard shove, sending his brother stepping backward a couple steps.
And Zane? Well…he didn’t take it well. Obviously. His fist flew, cracked against Sebastian’s jaw and twisted him sideways.
And then it was on, both men rushing at each other, spitting curses and swinging fists.
I had to stop it.
It wasn’t even a conscious thing, honestly, I just reacted. From the time I was two years old, Dad had taught me martial arts. Every morning before dawn we ran through the katas, and once a week I went with Dad to his gym to spar. I never really cared about belts or anything, because I did it for Dad more than anything, but I’d passed the second-degree black belt test, on Dad’s insistence.
So I knew I could handle myself, and jumping in to stop a fight was just second nature. I had the skills, so I was obliged to use them when necessary in the defense of others—another lesson Dad had impressed on me, growing up.
So when the fists started flying, I went in.
I blocked Sebastian’s right cross and redirected his momentum aside, sending him stumbling, and then spun to face Zane, who already had his own punch rocketing toward where Sebastian had been—and where I now was. I twisted to dodge it, stepped inside Zane’s reach, caught his off-hand and twisted against the joint in a wrist-lock.
The plan had been to spin him around and shove him away to separate the brothers, but I underestimated the snake-fast speed of Zane’s instinctive reaction to the wrist-lock. The man was a Navy SEAL for fuck’s sake…what had I expected? He simply accepted the pain of the wrist-lock and slammed the heel of his palm into my chest, right against my diaphragm. Knocked the wind out of me, sent me stumbling, gasping for breath. It wasn’t a hard hit, and had been instinctive, the result of hundreds of hours of practice.
Before I could react, he had his fingers around my throat, cutting off my breath and lifting me clear off the floor a solid inch. “Who the fuck is this bitch, Bast?”
Of course, my training had obviously covered how to counter a hand around the throat, and I wasn’t about to be choked out or intimidated, SEAL or not. I grabbed his hand in both of mine, twisted to break his grip, wrenched his arm around behind his back, spinning him in place, and then brought my knee up between his legs as hard as I could.
Which dropped his big soldier ass to the floor, post-haste.
I crouched beside Zane, who was writhing on the floor in agony. “My name is Dru Connolly. And if you ever call me a bitch again, I’ll rip your fucking balls off, do you understand me?”
He nodded, cupping his balls with both hands, struggling for breath.
I felt two hands grab my shoulders and pull me away. My first instinct was to start breaking bones, but then I realized it was Sebastian, so I let him pull me a few feet backward.
I twisted in place and stared up at him. “You said your brother was ugly, not that he was a complete asshole.”
Sebastian’s lips quirked. “I think I also said not to expect much by way of manners from him.”
“True.” I noticed then that Sebastian’s lip was split, and he was trickling blood from his nose. “You’re hurt. Come here.”
Another instinctive reaction, happening without conscious thought. I pulled him over to the bar and sat him down in a chair. There was a clean white towel sitting on the bar, folded in quarters; I grabbed it, stuffed some ice from the service bar into it, and touched it to the puffy, swollen, split open lump on Sebastian’s lip, and then used one of the dangling corners to dab at his nose. I wasn’t sure what came over me, honestly. Even as I was doing it, it felt odd. Unlike me. Yet also oddly…right. And familiar.
Which freaked me the fuck out.
I don’t have much of a nurturing instinct, and never have. Or, at least, I never thought I did. Michael sliced open his finger cutting bell peppers once, and my idea of nurturing him then had been to toss him a roll of paper towels and tell him not to bleed on the peppers. That cut had required four stitches, and the man had been my fiancé. Now, a man I’d met the night before got into a fistfight with his own brother and got a split lip and bloody nose for the trouble, and I was wifing on him so hard my ovaries were wondering if it was baby time.
I blinked up at him as I realized what I was doing, and that he was staring down at me with those wild warm intense brown bear eyes, exuding heat and sexuality.
I stepped back abruptly. “Thanks. For the clothes, I mean. And…for—for last night. You were a true gentleman, and I—yeah. Thanks.” I turned away, moved past the still gasping and writhing Zane for the exit.
I made it to the door, had my hand on the knob.