Sinner's Revenge(48)

I feel like the world shifts on its axis. The floor seems to shake with his every step—not from the weight of his body, but out of fear. He exudes the power of a god. So much so that I stand expectantly, waiting for him to summon lightning from the sky. I’ve never been so captivated by anyone in all of my life. Just the mere thought of his presence makes me feel like I’m safe from everything.

Joe flanks him, and although he’s significantly bigger, he seems small compared to Zeke. He’s angry too, but can’t hold a candle to the evil that’s radiating off the man beside him.

I move closer, although I’m sure he can be heard from anywhere in the bar. Even though his voice is low, the strength and conviction in it allows his words to carry far beyond normal reach.

“Get out.” His demand leaves no room for negotiation—no conversation, no options, and no fucking excuses. My whole body just melted, and he’s done nothing but speak.

The men he’s confronting are the notorious Death Mob one-percenters. They’re big, mean, and look down at him as if he’s nothing more than a smear of dog shit on the bottom of their shoes. Once again, he’s outnumbered, outsized, and doesn’t care.

Instead of getting nervous for him, I become excited. Everything around me blurs, as my eyes focus on the only man in the room. He’s not intimidated. If anything, he’s confident in his ability to take on the six bikers, without the least little bit of doubt. It’s almost like he has a personal vendetta against them, and has been looking forward to this opportunity for quite some time.

Everything seems to happen too fast for my eyes to see, and too quick for my brain to register. It’s not your typical barroom brawl—this is a one-man show. Joe is caught up in the mix, but it’s clear he’s only there to prevent them all from jumping in at the same time.

If Steven Seagal and Jean-Claude Van Damme had a baby, I’m sure Zeke would be the result. His moves are quick, precise, and he seems to be one step ahead of the men he’s fighting. The blows he lands are always in the right places, dropping the men completely or at the very least bringing them to their knees. If I wasn’t seeing it with my own eyes, I wouldn’t believe he was capable of doing so much damage.

Even though he’s good, he’s not a ninja. I flinch every time he gets hit, but he doesn’t seem to feel it. He’s in the zone. Or he’s immortal. Or he spikes his drinks with a liquid form of kryptonite. That would explain why his beer tastes so good. Why he tastes so good.

After what seems like forever, but is really only a couple minutes, security shows up and breaks up the fight. The bikers are escorted from the bar. Surprisingly, they leave without argument, carrying the ones out that are still unconscious. They’re screaming “fuck you” and “you’ll be seeing us again” all the way to their bikes.

The smell of whiskey, blood, and leather hangs heavy in the air. But it can’t mask the scent of male sweat mixed with a little smoke, a hint of cologne, and a whole lot of Zeke.

He’s standing in front of me, his breath heavy and his eyes blazing. They’re focused solely on me, and I can feel the intensity of their heat in places I want his mouth. He has a small cut on his lip, and a slight swell in his jaw. The cut wells with blood and I’m tempted to lick it. And the beads of sweat above his lips. And everything else I can put my tongue on.

He’s under my skin. He’s in my head. He gives me everything I never knew I wanted and then some. If I thought I was falling before, I’m sure of it now. There is no place in this world I’d rather be than in his arms, on his nerves, and at his house. He makes me feel like there is something magical inside me. He brings out my worst, then contradicts it with my best.

I never want to be where he isn’t. He wants the same thing. And like me, he just can’t admit it. But this man would kill for me. I know it. He’s holding in a secret that I haven’t figured out, and frankly I don’t care to. Everything that’s bad about him and unknown to me only makes me want him more. And by the look he’s giving me, he wants me too.

“You okay?” he asks, and a small hint of regret flashes in his eyes.

“Yes.” I had a smart-ass comeback, but I couldn’t manage to find the air to say it. I’m just as breathless as he is and I haven’t done a damn thing.

I’m waiting for him to give me a smirk, or for his concentration to break. But his fierce gaze never falters. It’s like he’s trying to tell me something with his eyes—something I don’t want to hear. He’s giving me a warning. He’s telling me that this is who he is. That he’s a bad guy. That he’s no good for me, blah, blah, blah.