Page 2 of Angel’s Claim

"You don't look okay."

I can feel my heartbeat in my throat. This is the part where I'm supposed to smile, deflect and make him feel good about himself so he'll leave me alone. This is the part where I'm supposed to be sweet and accommodating and never make anyone uncomfortable, especially not a man who's decided he's entitled to my time.

I'm so tired of that part.

"I'm fine," I say again, and this time there's an edge in my voice I didn't plan. "I'd like to be alone."

Dusty's smile fades slightly. "Now that's just rude."

"I'm not trying to be rude," I say. "I'm just—"

"I'm being nice to you," he says, and his tone shifts. It’s harder now, with something mean underneath. "Least you could do is be nice back."

My hands are shaking again. I press them into my lap where he can't see.

"I need you to leave," I say.

"Or what?" He leans back in the booth, spreading his arms across the back of the seat like he owns the space. "You gonna make me?"

I don't know what to say. I don't know what to do. All the etiquette lessons, charity galas and years of learning how to navigate rooms full of powerful men who smile while they corner you, none of it prepared me for this.

"She asked you to leave."

The voice comes from behind me: low, calm, and absolutely immovable.

I turn.

There's a man standing beside the booth. Tall, maybe six-one, with dark blonde hair cut military-short and sharp blue eyes that don't blink as he stares down at Dusty. He's wearing a black leather vest over a dark T-shirt, jeans worn soft at the knees, and there's something about the way he's standing: completely still, weight balanced, hands loose at his sides, that makes him look like he could end this in under five seconds if he wanted to.

He's terrifying.

He's the most beautiful man I've ever seen in my life.

"This doesn't concern you, Angel," Dusty says, and there's something mocking in the way he says the name.

Angel. That's his name?

"It does now," Angel says. His voice doesn't rise. It doesn't need to. "She asked you to leave. So, leave."

Dusty doesn't move. "We're just talking."

"No, you're not." Angel shifts slightly, barely a movement, but suddenly he's between me and Dusty, blocking him from my line of sight. "You're making her uncomfortable. And now you're done."

"Or what?" Dusty stands up, chest puffed out, trying to make himself bigger. He's shorter than Angel by a few inches and probably outweighed by thirty pounds, but he's drunk enough not to care. "You gonna make me, prospect?"

Prospect. I don't know what that means, but the way Dusty says it sounds like an insult.

Angel doesn't react. He just stands there, perfectly still, watching Dusty like he's already calculated every possible outcome of this conversation and decided which one he's going to allow.

"Yeah," he says finally. "If I have to."

For a long moment, nobody moves.

Then Dusty mutters something I can't hear, shoves past Angel hard enough that their shoulders collide, and storms toward the bar.

Angel doesn't even flinch.

He watches Dusty go, then turns and looks down at me.