“Stop,” Butcher snarls.
He looms over Snow, his face carved with irritation.
I caught her singing earlier. Sweet, airy notes that don’t belong in a place this rough. If I had to bet, that purity scraped against his nerves. Whatever it is about her that needles him, he’s clueless about how to handle it, and that makes him reckless.
“No,” she chirps, her voice a bright defiant spark. “I like singing, and I’m good at it. Take your ornery self somewhere else if it hurts your ears.”
Unbothered, she resumes scrubbing the counter, her hum steady and defiant. Butcher’s face twists, the warning sign of a man about to do something spectacularly stupid. I stride over, but I’m a heartbeat too slow. The brute lunges, his hand clamping around Snow’s wrist like a shackle.
She lets out a small, startled cry.
A fuse blows somewhere deep inside me.
Before I even register the choice, my knife is out, pressed against his crotch, and I’m glaring up at a man who is, by any measure, a giant.
Wow. He really is a mountain.
I click my tongue against my teeth, the sound sharp in the sudden silence of the diner. "You shouldn't touch a woman without her permission, Butcher." I keep my voice pleasant. Conversational. "Now, I'm perfectly happy to provide a complimentary castration right here, but I don't think any of us actually want that. So, how about you apologize to the princess, and then I don't have to die today. Does that work for everyone?"
These men are family to me, but Snow is something else. She’s a tiny bird with a broken wing, still determined to sing. The day I saw her for what she was, I tucked her under my own wing. Letting the wolves close would make me a lousy protector.
Just call me Prince Charming.
Butcher goes quiet for a moment. Something moves through his expression. The anger drains away, leaving something that looks almost like grief underneath. He didn’t mean to hurt her. He just doesn't know how to handle something so soft.
Hopeless, hopeless men.
"Sorry, Snow," he says, voice rough with it. "Didn't mean to harm you."
I snap the knife shut and tap his chest, right above his heart, my irritation giving way to satisfaction at his apology. “Good boy.” Then I turn to Snow, letting my voice turn gentle. “You alright?”
“I’m okay, Mari.” She gives me that smile, only slightly wobbly at the edges. "He just caught me off guard."
I give her head a quick, awkward pat and face the table of Saint’s Outlaws. I wag a finger. “Behave. Learn how to woo a woman, for goodness’ sake.”
Before they can even respond, I leave. If I stay in the middle of the macho posturing any longer, I cannot promise I'll be pleasant about it, and if I'm not pleasant to the bad men, then I end up as shark food.
Basic math. Duh.
I gnaw my thumbnail as I wander back toward the office.
That picture lingers at the edge of my thoughts, exactly where it’s been haunting me all day.
Should I tell Pope?
You can’t guard against threats you don’t see coming. If someone’s after Tomcat, or me, or both, the club deserves a heads-up. But I don’t even know what I’m dealing with yet. Damon was my first suspect—he always is. The slow poison of his mind games is his calling card. But this? This feels different. Smaller. Pettier.
Stay away from him.
It reeks of cattiness. The jealous hiss of a woman convinced Tomcat belongs to her.
Probably.
Maybe.
Okay. Sixty-forty. Maybe fifty-fifty.
Either way, do they need to know yet?