“Dinner with the Bradfords. Don’t make me say it twice,” Damien said, his palm anchored to my wet hair.
“You—” I started, gagging on the word, but a hand shoved my face down again and the mirror filled with a bruise of fluorescent light and the back of someone's fist.
“Shut up, princess,” the taller one hissed. “No one likes a show.”
“Move,” Damien said.
The hand on my hair tightened. I tried to jerk free and his fingers dug in. I could see his suit sleeve in the mirror, the cuff immaculate, the smell of expensive smoke. He didn't look like someone who fought in bar fights. He looked like someone people listened to.
“Get your hands off her,” he said.
The tall man let go of me as if a hot iron burned him. His mouth opened, closed, opened again.
“You're going to regret—” he lied, already backing away.
Damien's jaw didn't move. He reached out and tapped the man's wrist like he was checking a watch.
“Back up,” Damien said. “Now.”
Two others circled like they wanted to prove something to each other. One of them pulled out his phone; a grin spread. Someone always wanted viral humiliation.
“I said back up,” Damien repeated.
The world narrowed to his voice: flat, absolute. The men's bravado drained. The tall one lunged, that last cheap attempt at courage, and Damien caught his forearm mid-swing, spun him, and shoved him into
