Page 7 of Twisted Little Game

He’s fucking mouthy.

“I wasn’t taking your picture.”

“You’re a bad liar,” Tate replies, holding out his hand. “Show me your photo app.”

“What are you going to do, punch me? Want to get expelled from Crimson before the semester even begins, Landrey?”

A sudden flash of movement takes me by surprise.

Tate’s fist comes down hard on the wall beside him. His knuckles connect with a framed photo, sending it shattering into pieces.

A few people nearby gasp and move away, and Tate dips to pick up a large shard of glass, brandishing it against the guy’s neck.

I’m left with only one option.

This mess isn’t going to happen.

Not in my fucking house.

I spring into action, cutting across the room. Tate’s fingers drip with blood from the shard of glass clutched tightly in his hand, so graceless and barbaric. The boy has no clue how to fight cleanly.

Slow, crimson rivulets of his blood fall down the stranger’s baby-blue shirt.

“Step back,” I bark at Tate.

“Show me the photos,” he’s saying to the stranger.

“I was just taking shots of the party,” the guy says, tossing his phone out onto a nearby armchair. Tate keeps one hand on him as he reaches for the phone, looking down at it.

“You’re a bad liar. Need these for your personal collection, or were you going to sell them?”

“Hands off,” I say as I reach their side.

I yank Landrey’s arm away from the guy in in an instant.

I pull him back, both of us stumbling a few steps as his momentum lands against me, and the side of my body hits a table behind me, making a lamp fall to the floor.

I keep my fist locked around Tate’s wrist.

The back of his body connects with the front of mine, like I’m a human strait jacket wrapping around him from behind.

I get his arm fully immobilized, holding it firmly in a bar against my chest. If I try to grab the shard of glass out of Tate’s hand it’ll destroy his palm, so I let him keep gripping it like a fucking animal.

“Who the fuck are you?” Tate says, craning his head back to look up at me for the first time.

His eyes flick low then up again, sizing me up.

Yes.

Take me in.

I’m nearly a head taller than you, and you can feel the strength of my grip.

If he’s afraid, he doesn’t show it. He has no clue about me, or my family, or the type of people that I come from. He doesn’t know he should be afraid.

I lean over close to the side of his face and speak in a deep, steady tone.

“Roman Petrov,” I growl right against his earlobe, so close my lips brush along his skin. “Nice to fucking meet you. You are in my house, sumasshedshiy durak.”