Page 74 of Dangerous Men

I’m entering my sickly saccharine form of sarcasm that comes before the dead-eyed rage brewing beneath my surface. I can tell this man is about to argue with me more, so I lower my voice until only he can hear me, twisting my phone around and showing him the search results.

“You see here, where the internet defines an Americano asfuckingespresso andfuckingwater andno fucking milk?” I hiss at him. He takes a step back, jarred by the level of my anger.

But this isnothingcompared to how angry I can really get.

He opens his mouth to speak, but I cut him off before he can utter a single word. “And before you try to argue again or threaten us or whatever bullshit you think you can say to me, let me assure you that I don’t care who you are, why you’re here, or if you ever come back to my store. I will literally jump over this counter and smash my phone into your face as many times as is necessary for thisvery simpleinformation to make it to youruseless fucking brain.”

He's so bewildered he’s frozen in place.

“Don’t you ever,ever, insult my friend again,” I say, baring my teeth in a snarl. “Or it will be the last thing you ever do.”

A tall specter appears behind the man, the sunlight comingin from outside casting an odd halo around him. I shift back in surprise at the familiar figure as he places a long-fingered hand on the customer’s shoulder.

“If your little tantrum is over, I think it’s time for you to leave,” Sebastian says to him in a quiet, menacing voice. “Now.”

The sharp look in his eyes as he stares this man down sends a shiver down my spine and an unexpected surge of heat through my veins.

Honestly, his cold, angry intensity is kind of hot when it’s not directed at me.

“Fuck you,” the guy snaps, finally breaking out of his stupor and trying to shrug Sebastian’s hand off his shoulder. “Piss off and mind your own business. This has nothing to do with you, so?—”

It takes barely any movement at all. Sebastian’s hand tightens, and a look of pure agony bursts over the man’s face. I watch as Sebastian digs his thumb under the man’s shoulder blade, hitting a sensitive bundle of nerves with enough accuracy it looks like this asshole might pass out.

“You should leave,” Sebastian repeats in that same measured tone. His face is completely blank, the same cold, bored expression he always wears. “And if you ever come back here again, you’ll be leaving in pieces.”

And that’s all it takes. The guy practically runs out the door after Sebastian lets him go, leaving his Americano behind on the counter, steam still rising from the cup.

Jade stares at Sebastian as though seeing him properly for the first time, her mouth open in shock. I’m sure I look just the same. Never in a thousand years would I have expected this. Without a word to either of us, without even glancing in our direction, he reaches out to take the man’s drink, lifting and taking a sip.

He rolls it in his mouth.

“The man’s an idiot,” Sebastian declares, eyes flicking up to Jade, before setting the drink back on the counter. “This drink is perfect.”

Jade’s expression lifts, and she gives him a small, proud smile.

“Thanks. Really. Ididhave it handled,” I say. I may hate him, but anyone that defends Jade deserves some recognition from me. “But thank y?—”

“Forget it,” he cuts me off in an indifferent tone and turns around to walk back to his table, dismissing me entirely.

Maybe he doesn’t deserve anything from me after all. My anger rises again, threatening to break the surface for the second time today, but this time I’m able to quiet it. Pushing that rage down, I close my eyes and go through my breathing exercises.

One, two, three, four, five… I hold the air in my chest.

Six, seven, eight, nine, ten… I let it out slowly.

“Why do you do that?”

The voice jars me out of my routine. It’s Sebastian, paused halfway to his table, staring back at me over his shoulder.

“Dowhat?” I snap.

“Swallow your anger like that.” For once, he seems genuinely interested. Almost confused. “Pretend you don’t feel it.”

“I’m notpretending.”The words come out harsher than I mean to, and I force myself to take another deep breath.

I am an ocean of calm.

“I won’t let myself be a slave to my negative emotions,” I tell him, reciting another mantra one of many, many therapists I went to following my parents’ accident taught me. I have a journal full of them somewhere in my bedroom—lines and lines of positive affirmations about reclaiming the good and letting goof the bad. About refusing to let the darker, angrier side of me take over.