Page 28 of Shared by my Ex’s Best Friends (Twisted Desires #2)

Chapter twenty-eight

JAKE

I see him before I hear him.

Nick, slouched near the drink table, slurring a half-hearted joke to a poor guy in a bowtie who clearly regrets making eye contact. His shirt’s half untucked, tie limp like a noose, and his hair’s mussed in a way that suggests he’s been dragging his fingers through it all night.

But it’s his eyes that hit hardest—red-rimmed, glassy, and sharp.

Too sharp. Mean. This isn’t like him. He’s been so different from his usual self the last few days, and it’s making him unpredictable.

Every time that gaze lands on Maya, something in my chest tightens.

My hands curl into fists automatically, my whole body humming with a need to protect.

She’s near the archway, talking to other bridesmaids. She’s so focused on her conversation, she doesn’t see him veer from the drink table—doesn’t see the way his shoulders square with intent.

But I do.

He moves fast, shoving past a group of wedding guests like they’re scenery, not people. I start moving without thinking, cutting across the lawn.

His voice is low, almost a growl. “So this is how it is now?”

Maya flinches, straightening as she turns toward him. “Nick,” she says, her tone wary. “You need to leave.”

He steps in, too close, swaying slightly on his feet. “You think I’m just gonna let you pretend none of it meant anything?”

Then he grabs her wrist.

Her eyes go wide, and she stumbles a half-step, trying to pull back—but his grip tightens. I see the flicker of fear cross her face. That’s all it takes.

“Let go of her.” My voice slices through the noise, cold and measured. The kind of calm that lives just before a storm rips through everything.

Nick turns, his lips twisting into something that’s supposed to be a smirk but lands more like a sneer. “What, you her bodyguard now?”

I don’t answer. I step between them, nudging Maya behind me with my arm. Her hand finds the small of my back—just the lightest touch, but it centers me in a way nothing else could.

“You’re drunk,” I say evenly. “Walk away.”

He laughs, sharp and ugly. “She’s not yours. None of you get to act like she’s yours.”

My jaw ticks. His breath reeks of whiskey. “You’re right,” I say. “She’s not mine. But she sure as hell isn’t yours.”

His face contorts. “You don’t get to say that—”

And then he swings.

His fist connects with my jaw—a glancing hit, but there’s enough force to make my vision blur for half a second. I taste blood.

I swing back.

My fist lands square in his gut with a dull, sickening thud . Nick folds in half, wheezing as he stumbles backward, but he recovers fast—fueled by whatever cocktail of rage and shame he’s been nursing all night.

He lunges, and then we’re in it—grappling, fists flying, years of tension boiling over in a raw, chaotic tangle. There’s nothing elegant about it. Just fury and grit and gravel crunching beneath our feet.

My knuckles split open against his cheekbone. He gets one good hit to my ribs that knocks the breath out of me.

But I don’t stop.

Because I’ve watched him mess with her for too long. Heard the stories. Seen the aftermath in the shadows beneath her eyes and the way her shoulders tense when she hears his name.

I’m finally going to make him pay for all of it.

I’m not doing this to win. I’m doing this because he needs sense knocked back into him.