Page 52 of On Edge

I pour another drink, watching Ragg rake his beady eyes over my fiancé, trying to pot a ball. She bites her lip in concentration, lines up the shot, and trips on her own feet. The ball rolls pathetically to the left.

Ragg laughs.

Sage bloody turns beetroot.

Fuck. I want to rip that laugh right out of his throat. But I can’t. My jaw aches from clenching so much. Why do I even care? She’s terrible at this. But it’s annoyingly adorable, if I’m being honest. The way she frowns at the table like it personally made her ball roll the wrong way….

I need another drink.

I down the whiskey and immediately pour another.

Ragg starts asking innocent-seeming questions about how we met, when we fell in love, probing for details. Sage lies smoothly, weaving a story about a chance encounter at her mother’s bakery, protecting my secrets without being asked, like I prepped her beforehand.

Good girl.

Of course, I didn’t, but she shoots a glance over at me, anyway, without Ragg noticing, as if seeking approval. My mouth curves despite myself. She’s good at this, covering for me, playing her part perfectly as though she’s on my side.

Like she’s already mine.

The thought leaves something hot and irritating in my chest, and I have to look away before I do something stupid…like go over there and drag her away from Ragg like a jealous soon-to-be-husband.

I could.

It would play the part perfectly, but then that would be admitting to everyone (me included) that she’s got to me, that she’s crawled under my damn skin.

I have to remind myself just how much I hate her. But then she laughs at something he says, suddenly smiling, all bright and genuine. For a moment, she looks relaxed, even happy. My fingers tighten around the glass of their own accord.

That’s the first time I’ve seen her laugh like that.

It’s probably because I’m a bastard who keeps threatening to throw her off my island. I’m the piece of work that devours her into dark-lit rooms and barks orders when she doesn’t do what I say. And I know every time she looks at me, she sees a monster.

She should.

I am one.

Ragg leans in closer, lowering his voice. I can’t hear what he’s saying anymore. Sage’s smile falters. Her shoulders tense.

What. The. Fuck. Did. He. Say?

Her laugh cuts off, and she steps back slightly, putting distance between them, but Ragg closes it. His hand settles on the small of her back a little too casually.

Touching what’s mine.

Red floods my vision.

There’s a loud crack. I look down. The glass in my hand has shattered on the bar, whiskey and broken glass pooling on the veined marble. But I don’t care. All I feel is the overwhelming urge to cross the room and break every bone in Ragg’s hand.

Fuck the article.

He’s dead.

I’m halfway across the room before I realize I’ve moved. Sage sees me coming. Her eyes widen, but not with fear, but something that makes her hazel orbs ignite and her cheeks flushpink. Making me hesitate to understand it. Ragg is still talking, oblivious, his hand still on what’s mine.

“Ragg.” My voice is ice. “The interview’s over.”

He turns, startled, a thin smile on his lips. “Already? But we haven’t had dinner?—”

“I said it’s over.” I step between him and Sage, forcing him back. “Katherine will show you to your room. Helicopter leaves at dawn.”