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“So will you.” I set my untouched shot on a table, stepped closer, and—very politely—knocked her hand off Rogue’s chest.
Brielle’s face twisted. One second she was all Botoxed composure; the next, she lunged, nails bared.
Instinct kicked in. I grabbed a fistful of platinum extensions and yanked. She screeched, clawing at my arm, catching skin. We crashed into a table; cards and cash flew. Someone shouted bets. Brielle swung—caught my cheek. I shoved her, grip sliding, nails scraping, hair pulling. Her press-on nail peeled back with a gruesome snap.
“My nail!” she screamed, voice breaking.
“Should’ve glued it better,” I hissed, yanking again.
She tackled me; we hit the floor and rolled. She slapped. I punched—short jab to the ribs. She howled, kicking wildly. I pinned her wrists, knees braced on either side of her sequined belt. Her perfume choked my lungs.
“Tap out, Barbie,” I growled.
“Get off me!”
Strong arms hooked under my shoulders and lifted me clear. Rogue’s voice, low and thunderous: “Enough.”
Trigger hauled Brielle upright. Her makeup smeared, hair a bird’s nest, one acrylic missing and bleeding at the cuticle. She tried to lunge, but Trigger held firm.
Rogue positioned himself between us, fury simmering behind storm-gray eyes. “Both of you. Stop.”
Brielle panted. “She attacked?—”
“She defended,” Rogue snapped. He turned to me, gaze sweeping for damage. “You okay?”
My pulse hammered; strands of her hair still clung to my fingers. “Fine.”
He nodded, then faced Brielle. “You don’t walk in here and lay hands on my people. Ever.”
Her lip trembled. “I love you, Logan.”
“Loved past tense,” he said, voice like ice. “You should go.”
Silence.
She wrenched free of Trigger, staggered toward the door—high heel catching on a knot in the floor. She swore, limped out, slamming the door so hard glasses rattled.
A beat.
Whistles, laughter, someone clapping. Rogue ignored it all, focus locked on me.
“Come here,” he said.
I stepped close; he caught my chin, tilting my face to inspect the blossoming red mark. His thumb stroked gently over my cheek. “She hurt you?”
“Not much.”
His jaw ticked. “You didn’t have to jump in.”
“I wanted to.”
His eyes softened—just a flicker—but it felt like the sun cutting through storm clouds. Warm. Dangerous. Real.
And right then, jealousy settled into something deeper, scarier.
Because this wasn’t a fling.
This man—this fierce, protective, maddening man—was sinking under my skin, threading himself through scar tissue I thought was impermeable.