Page 47 of Theirs to Hunt

I duck and weave, shoulder through the last row of dancers. I move low and fast, yank the stun gun from my pocket, flip the switch.

I aim for the forearm still inside her dress.

Zap.

The crackle lights up. He jerks back.

Bobbie stumbles away, dress tearing at the seam, one arm across her chest.

I grab her. Steady her.

Then I look behind me.

And see it.

His dick is out. Out.

He’s been humping her. Literally. In public.

Something inside me breaks.

I screech, some rabid, unholy battle cry mixed with a “Kai-yah,” and zap him again. Dead center on his swinging, stupid worm.

He drops in a pile. Right where shit belongs.

And I lose it.

Kick. Right to the flaccid shame stick.

Stomp. On the hand he dared to touch her with.

I jump. I may be short, but I land a heel to his face.

I don’t hear the crunch, but I feel it echo up my leg.

He’s not moving.

Good.

I lean down, panting, hair stuck to my face. My voice is cold, sharp, aimed.

“Try it again and I’ll shove my hand down your pants and this stunner up your ass. I’ll hold it until you piss yourself. Worthless piece of shit.”

Chapter forty

Reagan, Saturday 12:43 a.m.

Isnap back to the present, heart still pounding from the violence I unleashed. The adrenaline doesn’t fade. It sharpens.

The buzz of the club mixes with my need to chase the rush. My gaze sweeps the floor, ready to take down anyone who so much as looks at Bobbie wrong.

Then I feel it. A heavy presence closing in behind me.

I freeze. My pulse stutters.

It’s Grayson.

Before I can react, he grabs my arm and spins me around. His grip is tight, unyielding. His breath is sharp and warm against my ear.