Page 22 of Ruthless Dream

For a second the shadows play, the street seemingly empty. I jump when Jack appears by my shoulder.

I stumble back. “Fuc⁠—”

“Have you not had enough?” the guard asks.

“Enough of you,” I huff and march around him. He grabs my arm, jerking me back.

Words gather on my tongue. A mixture of ‘how dare you’ and ‘what the actual fuck.’ He pulls on my arm again, and I lose my breath when our chests bump.

A realization crystallizes, hardening in me.

I’ve never been manhandled by a guy before. I get plenty of creepy weirdos trying to hit up my DMs. There have been flirty texts from boys who are chasing dates. I’ve dealt with handsy boyfriends.

But I’ve never truly feared for myself in a particular way that so many women understand.

Jack’s eyes have changed. They’re not just disapproving or hardened. They’re beady little things. His chest is puffed out like this is his chance to prove something, only I’m not understanding why it entails jerking me around.

“Hey,” I breathe out, and I know it lacks gumption. There’s a squirm in my chest as I try to dig deep to find the sharp knife’s edge that all Akatovs are born with.

My back bumps into a wall, the bricks rough against the open back dress. I’m not wearing a bra.

Jack’s hand shoots out, twisting the fabric of my skirt.

Panic burns into me, words trying to babble out, as he reaches for an area that he does not have permission to touch.

“The fuck!” I push against him.

He spits at me, and this somehow stuns me more than if he’d hit me.

My muscles run cold, my mouth tumbling open. I’m pinned against a brick wall, but I am in a complete freefall.

Jack makes a noise. His knees buckle, and then he’s thrown to the side.

Big brown eyes meet mine. The grumpy guy from the bar.

“Do you normally let men just shove their hands up your skirt?”

My brow pinches. It takes me a moment to process the accent. He’s. . . Irish?

“Answer me,” he growls.

I shake my head. No, I do not let men shove their hands up my skirt, thank you very much.

He kicks Jack, who’s trying to stand up.

“Then why the fuck did he have his hand up your dress?”

My shoulders jerk each time he speaks, his tone like gravel along my skin.

“Adeline,” he warns. “It seems you’ve got yourself a bit of a problem.”

I want to sink to the ground, to put my head in my hands, and to rock myself side to side.

The man grabs Jack by the shoulders, hauling him up. “You’re one of Wallen’s, aren’t you?”

My mind pings at the name. He’s a business associate of Dad’s.

Oh, shit.