The anger drains out of me in pieces, leaving something else in its place.
Concern.
“You sure you’re okay?” I ask again.
Because I need to hear it.
“I was handling it,” she says.
“I know.”
And I do.
That’s the part that’s messing with my head.
She didn’t need me.
She wasn’t helpless.
I didn’t step in because she couldn’t fight her own battle.
I stepped in because I couldn’t stand watching him touch her.
“I didn’t need you to fight my battles,” she says.
“I wasn’t fighting it,” I answer quietly. “I was making sure you didn’t have to.”
The words surprise me.
Because they’re true.
And because I don’t talk like that.
I don’t plant myself between men and women like I’ve got some claim.
But when it comes to her?
Every instinct I have goes territorial.
Protective.
Possessive.
And I don’t understand it.
I’ve known her what—two weeks?
And yet the idea of someone putting their hands on her without permission makes something ancient and ugly rise up inside me.
I shouldn’t feel this.
I shouldn’t want this—her. Not like this.
But I do.
And that? That’s a hell of a lot more dangerous than any fight.
Chapter Twelve