Total pages in book: 119
Estimated words: 113699 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 568(@200wpm)___ 455(@250wpm)___ 379(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 113699 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 568(@200wpm)___ 455(@250wpm)___ 379(@300wpm)
“Another,” I tell the bartender, mind racing with possibilities. I’ve watched her enough to know her triggers, her fears, her desperate need for safety. Watched how she flinches when people get too close and how she retreats when chaos threatens to destroy her world.
If someone were to threaten that safety …
If someone were to make her feel like she needed protection …
If someone were to create just enough chaos to send her running toward control …
Movement at the end of the bar catches my attention. Marcus Chen sits at the far end, looking smug and untouchable as always. The same Marcus who torments Salem, who makes comments about her gloves, who seems to know way too much about why she needs such careful control of everything.
The doctor’s notes from the hospital mentioned him, but I skipped over his name, hunting for more about Salem. I might have to go back and read.
Anger burns hotter than bourbon in my veins. Not just because he hurt her but because he knows her secrets, knows things about her that I need to know. Things that could help me get closer to her. I watch him through the bottom of my glass, plans shifting and reforming like a game of Tetris. Maybe it’s time someone taught Marcus a lesson, to show him what it’s like to lose control.
Maybe it’s time I did something about anyone who makes Salem feel unsafe.
Starting with him.
I spend the rest of the day drinking while waiting for Marcus to pay his tab. Following him outside is easy—he’s too busy texting to notice my shadow trailing him into the alley. The neon LED mask sits heavy in my hands, retrieved from my car’s trunk where I keep it for nights exactly like this. Nights when chaos needs direction. Nights when violence needs anonymity.
The mask glows softly in the dim alley, casting eerie patterns against the brick walls as I slide it over my face. The alcohol in my system makes everything sharper somehow, more focused. More purposeful.
Marcus doesn’t hear me coming. Doesn’t sense the danger until I’m right behind him. He doesn’t have time to react before my fist connects with his kidney, the hit dropping him to his knees.
“What the fu—” His words cut off as I grab him by the throat, slamming him against the wall. The mask distorts my breathing, making it sound mechanical and threatening. Perfect.
I don’t speak. Don’t give him any hint of why this is happening or who I am. Don’t risk my voice or words giving me away. Instead, I let my fists do the talking. Let violence speak what words can’t. Let him feel what it’s like to be powerless.
He tries to fight back, but the bourbon has made me stronger and given me a sharper focus. It allows me to be more deliberate in each punch, each kick, each moment of controlled chaos. I release my disappointment and anger toward Salem’s rejection out on him.
The LED lights reflect in the growing puddle of blood from his split lip. Red and blue and violence paint the alley in abstract patterns. His attempts to speak are met with more force, more silence, more purposeful pain.
This is only the beginning.
The first step in a much bigger plan. I need to create one piece of chaos before I can offer her the careful, ordered protection she’ll need. He can’t know that, can’t suspect who’s behind the mask. If he does, things for Salem will only get worse. Which will, in turn, make me lose my fucking mind. Maybe the next time I go to jail, it will be for something worthy, like killing the next fucker who dares to touch her.
My muscles burn, and my chest heaves when I leave Marcus in a bloody mess in the alley. It feels unfinished, like I didn’t complete the mission. He’s still conscious, still breathing, and still able to pick himself up. Eventually.
For now, he got a glimpse of fear and felt what it was like to be helpless. Discovered that sometimes chaos finds you without warning or reason.
Once I reach my car, I strip off the mask, the neon lights dying as I shove it under the seat. My knuckles throb beneath leather gloves, split and bloody but worth it. The bourbon buzz has faded, replaced by something more intoxicating—power, purpose, possibility.
I slam my fist against the steering wheel. It’s not enough.
Violence alone won’t get me what I want.
Won’t get me who I want.
To get Salem, I need to make her see how much she needs me … I need something more calculated. More purposeful. More designed to her specific fears.
My phone contains numbers of terrible fucking people, friends, family, and people who owe me favors. Guys who don’t ask questions. Guys who understand the value of making someone feel unsafe without actually causing harm. Guys who know how to create just enough chaos to send someone running toward protection.