Page 55 of The Rules

His expression was stone. His jaw, locked. But his eyes?

Rage. Unfiltered. Unapologetic. Absolute.

The kind of fury that doesn’t just enter a room—it devours it.

He didn’t speak. Not at first. He just moved.

One brutal kick slammed into the man’s gut, folding him in half with a choked grunt. Before he could recover, Ian was on him—grabbing him by the collar, dragging him up like he weighed nothing.

"You don't touch my girls!" This time, he roared. The force of it cracked through the air like thunder.

The man whimpered, coughing, doubled over. It didn’t matter. Ian wasn’t listening.

Fury poured off him like heat from an open furnace, and every ounce of it had a target.

He was already dragging him out the door, down the hallway, and toward the back exit. Everyone in Crimson Bloom knew what that meant.

The alley behind the club wasn’t for deliveries.

It was for consequences.

And Ian didn’t do it alone. Two of his security men peeled off from the shadows, wordless and ready, like they'd been summoned before the bastard even touched Katherine. The door slammed behind them, and the thud of fists meeting flesh soon followed—dull, efficient, and merciless.

No one would hear him scream. Not over the bass. Not over the music. Not in Ian’shouse.

And when itwas over?

He wouldn’t come back.

Ever.

Then it was just Ben and Katherine, enveloped in silence. She exhaled, the breath shaky and catching in her trembling chest. He didn't let go, his hands still anchored on her arms—not possessive, just grounding. Steady. Silent reassurance.

Tension clung to him like heat off a furnace. She could see it in the taut lines around his mouth, feel it in the barely perceptible tremble of the fingers that refused to release her.

"You're hurt," he said, his voice quiet but razor-sharp.

Kath swallowed hard, trying to mask the tremor in her knees with a veneer of bravado. She pulled back half a step, struggling to breathe through the lingering shock. "I'll live."

Her voice cracked—a little. Thin. Cloaked in sarcasm, because anything else would unravel her completely.

She didn’t blink. Didn’t breathe too deep. Didn’t dare.

Because if she did—if she let even one crack show—she knew it would all come pouring out.

Her breath caught sharply as his fingers traced the angry welts marking her arm. A tremor coursed through her body, impossible to contain. Her flesh betrayed her, warming beneath his touch in ways that filled her with both longing and self-loathing.

His gaze snapped upward, capturing hers with intensity. His expression had transformed—harder, more penetrating than before, as though peeling away layers she'd carefully constructed around herself.

"You need ice," he murmured, his voice a controlled rumble, like thunder restrained behind a dam.

Kath expelled a short breath, retreating behind practiced nonchalance. "Didn't peg you for the nurturing type, Mr. S."

His lips barely moved—just the faintest shadow of what might have been amusement, or something darker. "I'm not."

She waited—silently challenging him to be the first to break contact.

And when he finally released her, the emptiness burned—more devastating than the bruises, more exquisite than pain.