Remy(23)

I would be highly amused if every single protective instinct inside me hadn’t shot off the charts, and if she hadn’t run back with a third bottle—a third fucking bottle!

I grab it from her hand before she can do anything and nudge her back toward the bar, where I slam it down hard. Then I toss her over my shoulder and charge back to the private rooms. I swear if I don’t get her out of here right now, I’m going to end up killing someone.

Brooke squirms and tries to pry herself free, slamming her fists into my back, complaining, “Remington!”

I tighten my hold on her ass to still her and see Pete chatting with a group of women. “Scorpion’s out there with his fucking goons—I’m out,” I growl at him, then charge outside and shove her into the back of the car.

Our driver jumps behind the wheel and quickly pulls into the traffic. I’m struggling with myself in the backseat while Brooke tries to catch her breath, and holy god, I’m trying to erase the image in my head of watching her recklessly charge two fully grown, bloodthirsty men. “What in the hell did you think you were doing?” I explode, shaking with rage.

For her part, Brooke doesn’t look one bit concerned—she looks fucking delighted. “I just saved your ass and it felt amazing,” she says breathlessly, looking like a goddamn vision in that gold little top.

God! I want to fucking shake some sense into her, and at the same time I want to push her skirt up to her hips, bend over between her legs, and sink my tongue in her until she moans my name and makes me forget everything that just happened.

I don’t fucking like Scorpion looking at her.

I don’t like him talking about her.

I fucking don’t like him pushing her.

And I can’t even put into words how I feel about her smashing the brains off his minions with a couple of fucking bottles. Jesus.

I scrape my hands down my face and then rub the back of my neck, all my limbs shaking. “For the love of fucking god, don’t ever, ever, do that again. Ever. If one of them sets a hand on you, I’ll fucking kill them and I won’t give a rat’s fuck who sees me!”

When she only stares at me with a defiant little gleam in her eyes, I catch her wrist and squeeze so she understands she can’t fucking take on men like them, releasing her when she gasps. “I mean it. Don’t fucking ever do that again.”

“Of course I will do it again. I won’t let you get into trouble,” she counters.

I can only stare at her, a thousand things I’ve never felt in my life hitting me all at once. “Jesus, are you for real?” My chest feels like a knot as I drag a hand along my face and stare outside, trembling when I think of all the years nobody has given a shit whether I get in trouble or not. “You’re a stick of dynamite, do you know that?”

Her cheeks flush a deeper red as she nods. She looks as beautiful as a fucking rainbow. I want to stop with this arguing, take her up to my room, and make love.

Going up the elevator, I stay away. I want to finish what we started at the dance floor. I want to grab her, kiss her, hold her. I want her to promise me to never do that again. Never risk herself for me, or anyone, again.

“It’s okay,” she says, touching my shoulder, and all I can think is, God, Brooke. You’re so sweet and so innocent. Are you going to do this when I’m black?

I’m all knotted up inside as I see her fingers on me, and in my mind, I bend my head and lick my tongue up her fingers, all the way up her arm, her shoulders, her neck, to latch onto her mouth. Before I can, she steps back to her corner and stares at me, her eyes wide and confused.

I flex my hands and try calming down.

“I’m sorry you had to see those assholes,” I say, pulling on my hair for a second. “I’m going to fucking break all Scorpion’s bones and pull his goddamned eyes out when I get a chance.”

She nods, and I’m calmed somewhat, but even then I’m fighting the urge to put my arms around her.

“Can I come to your room until the guys get back?” she asks.

I hesitate, then the thought of her leaving her scent all over my room makes me nod like a true masochist, and she follows me. In my suite, she settles down on the living-room couch and I flick the TV on as a distraction. “Do you want something to drink?”

“No,” she says. “I never drink the day before flying or I’ll get doubly dehydrated.”

I bring two water bottles from the bar and sit next to her.

“Why did you get in trouble when you were pro?” she asks.

“A fight like the one you just prevented,” I answer in a thick, textured voice. Then I stare off into the screen, jaw clenched as I remember. I’d awoken to find the TV ablaze with news about me. I’d been manic. I’d been provoked. I’d acted—like I always do. My life was over, just like Brooke’s when she tore her ACL.