Page 68 of Tracking Snow

I’m going to bite it off.

What I can only describe as the snort of an angry bull comes from over drunk dude’s shoulder just before something collides with him.

Not something.

Someone.

The pressure disappears as the drunk dude hits the wall hard enough to rattle the framed staff photos. I drop, catch myself on one knee, and look up in time to see the red glow of Four’s eyes. Except instead of ruby red, they glint like they burn with live fire.

Four’s fist drives into the guy’s face once, twice, before his hand closes around the front of the man’s shirt and slams him back again.

"You don’t touch her." Four’s voice comes out low and rough, almost lost beneath the noise from the bar. "You don’t put your filthy magic on her." Heat blooms in the narrow hallway. The drunk’s shirt starts to smoke under Four’s grip. "What a dirty, dangerous little power."

"Four," I say, pushing to my feet.

He doesn’t hear me. Or he chooses not to. His palm presses flat to the guy’s chest and the man screams. The smell of scorched cotton cuts through spilled beer and old citrus. "You think you deserve to walk around with that inside you?" Four snarls. "You think anyone should trust you with power? You shouldn’t have it. You shouldn’t be here. You shouldn’t⁠—"

"Four." I grab his arm with both hands and yank. His skin is fever-hot beneath my palms, but he stops.

He turns to look at me, though he doesn’t seem to see me. His red eyes are still lit as his breath punches out of him, making his chest heave.

The guy slides down the wall, gasping and clutching the smoking front of his shirt.

"Snow," Four says, coming out of his blind rage.

I keep my grip on Four as the now-burned jackass scrabbles to get away. "I’m fine," I say. Four’s gaze sweeps over my face, my arms, my legs, cataloging. The heat in the hallway lowers by degrees.

"He touched you." Four still seems seconds from snapping again. "I’d kill him for looking at you too long, but for that, I'm going to leave his charred body at the bottom of the Charles."

Holy faefucks. I almost believe him. I’d probably feel the same if I weren’t so busy watching Four lose his mind over me.

I’m definitely going to report that guy’s ass, get hold of the security camera footage we have in here, and charge him with sexual assault.

I don’t give a fuck if he was drunk. No means no. And as tempting as it would be to carve those words on his stomach with one of my friendly daggers, I want his behavior on display for the whole world. Plus, Rap knows a sea witch of a lawyer who would destroy his reputation for that stunt he just pulled.

"Four," I say firmly, trying to bring his attention back to me.

His jaw flexes. The heat in the hallway climbs until sweat beads at my hairline.

Then his gaze drops to my mouth.

He reaches for me.

Stops.

His fingers curl into his palm hard enough that his knuckles pale. He turns and disappears into the men’s bathroom for only a few seconds before he comes out with a wet paper towel.

When he offers it to me, his hand shakes. "Here."

I take it and bring the warm towel to my mouth. Lime, liquor, and the sour taste of that douche pickle fade.

"Thanks," I say.

Four doesn’t answer.

His gaze stays on the paper towel pressed to my mouth. Then drops to his own hand.

The one he used to burn the drunk dude.