Page 15 of Mine To Hunt

I weave through the crowd, elbows brushing sweaty arms, the smell of spilled beer thick in the air. My heart hammers, each step heavier, eyes scanning the dim corners.

There. Booth in the back, shadows playing over familiar broad shoulders. Ryan. His head's tilted, lips locked with hers, the brunette from the photo. Her hands are in his hair, pulling him closer, and he's all in, no hesitation.

She's beautiful up close with long dark waves cascading down her back, full lips painted red, curves hugged by a tight black top that screams confidence. The kind I never had.

They don't notice me at first, lost in it, and nausea rolls up my throat, hot and bitter. This is real. Not some edited pic. Him, choosing her. Over me.

"Ryan." My voice cuts through, sharper than I expect.

He snaps back like I've shocked him, eyes wide, mouth still wet from her. The brunette pulls away slowly, wiping her lip with a finger, her gaze sliding to me with curiosity, not guilt.

"Iris?" Ryan's on his feet in a blink, chair scraping loud.

Shock twists his face, but it shifts quickly to something harder, defensive. "What the hell are you doing here? How'd you even…"

"Who is she?" I cut him off, my voice steady even as my hands shake at my sides.

The crowd noise fades to a hum. It's just us, the air thick with his cologne and her perfume. Betrayal stings fresh, a knife twist in my gut.

He glances at the girl, then back, jaw clenching. "This isn't… Shit, Iris, not here."

His hand shoots out, grabbing my arm, fingers digging in hard, bruising already. I wince, but he yanks me toward the exit, pulling me through the throng like I'm baggage.

"We'll talk at home. Move."

"Let go!" I twist, but his grip tightens, dragging me along.

Drunks part around us, some chuckling like it's a lovers' spat. My free hand balls into a fist, nails biting my palm. "Ryan, stop…"

"Home." He growls low, breath hot on my ear.

We burst out the door, the cold slapping me again. I try to pull my arm free, digging my heels into the pavement for a second, but his grip only tightens.

“Ryan, stop…”

He doesn’t. He just drags me along the pavement, fast enough that I have to stumble to keep up. He doesn’t release me until we reach his car, shoving me back against the passenger side.

I looked back while leaving, stupid, but I did. She was still in the booth. Smirking. Like she won. Like I’m the joke.

The drive’s a blur of silence and fury, his knuckles white on the wheel, my arm throbbing where he grabbed. I stare out the window, tears pricking but held back.

Why? Eight months of me bending over backward, cooking his favorites, biting my tongue on late nights, pretending his shouts were just stress. For this?

He parks jerky in our spot, kills the engine, and storms inside without a word. I follow slow, the door slamming behind.

He’s pacing the living room when I shut the door behind me. His face is flushed. His eyes wild.

“You’re being a real pain in the ass tonight, Iris” He snaps. “Showing up like that? Making a scene? What the fuck?”

I drop my bag by the door. My arms fold tightly across my chest, like that alone might keep me from falling apart.

“Me? A pain?” My voice shakes. “Ryan, you’re the one sucking face with some girl in a dive bar.”

He rolls his eyes.

“Who is she?” I demand. “How long has that been going on?”

Ryan stops pacing and drags a hand through his hair.