"Don't move."
Emmett's fingers curled around my wrist and the grip hurt enough to make me see stars. He said my name like it was a joke. "Dahlia, darling, stay still. We can talk."
"I said don't touch me," I spat, jerking my hand free. Something in me snapped with the same speed I pulled the glass bottle off the shelf.
"You'll pay," I warned, and I brought the neck of the bottle down.
The glass shattered across his forehead. Warm slick hit my fingers. He hit the tile and looked up at me with surprise first, then fury.
"Jesus!" one of the cooks shouted. Another ran for a mop like the whole kitchen hadn't already seen worse.
Emmett grabbed my collar, blood running between his eyes. "You insane—" He tried to make the scene small, to look accidental. He failed at it. My hands were shaking but my voice didn't.
"You heard me," I said. "You touched me. You thought I was your property."
He pulled back like he'd been slapped. He widened his eyes and played hurt the way he played every role managers taught him. "Security! Someone call—"
"You," I said. "You started this."
The cooks closed in, faces flushing with anger at the mess on the floor and the risk to service. They looked at Emmett, then at me. Emmett was their manager. I had been hired two weeks ago.
"Back out, both of you," a voice said, hard
