Pretty Boy gives me an innocent smile. “Aw, come on. I’m just kidding around. Seriously. I know the score. We newbies don’t get anywhere without a little persuasion.” He offers me his hand. “I’m Marlow.”

I glance at the offered hand. “Marlow, I don’t care if you sucked dick to get invited here or not. But do not disrespect women as an opening line.” I push off from the table. “If you’ll excuse me.”

A hard hand slaps down on my shoulder, and I’m wrenched around. The guy is scary strong—something I didn’t anticipate because he looks all of a hundred twenty pounds. Angry grey eyes glare down at me. “You’ve got a some nerve,” he snarls, his fingers biting into my skin. “I’m a signed artist. Who are you? Killian James’ fucking whore.”

“Get the hell off—”

He invades my space, my back hitting the edge of the bar table. “Why don’t you play nice? Be a little friendly.”

It’s then I see how glassy his eyes are, the pupils wide. It distracts me. Without warning, he grabs my breast and squeezes. Hard.

Revulsion, rage, shock—all of it floods me. For a bright, hot second I can’t move. And then the rage takes control. My hand flies up, fingers punching into his eye sockets.

He rears back, stumbling, and I knee him between the legs. Unfortunately, my hit glances off his thigh. But he’s stunned and blinking frantically, snarling out curses.

I know when to run. My heels grind into the pavement as I pivot, my heart in my throat, flight taking over fight. I hear him coming for me.

“Fucking bitch!” Nails scratch my exposed back, catching on my halter. It rips, the sound loud against the buzzing in my ears.

My hands fly to my top, grasping my breasts to keep the fabric from falling down farther. I think I cry out. I don’t know for sure because another shout drowns out all sound.

And then Killian is there, bearing down on us like death. I sob. His expression actually scares me, even though I know it isn’t directed my way. He brushes by me, and with another enraged bellow, grabs Marlow by his neck.

The guy doesn’t stand a chance. Killian slams him to the patio pavement. He doesn’t talk, doesn’t hesitate, just starts whaling on the guy with his fists. It’s terrifying, brutal.

Around me, a crowd gathers. Phone camera flashes go off, others held up to record it all. Three more guys blow past me. Whip, Rye, and Jax.

They’re trying to pull Killian off a struggling Marlow, who gets a hit in. Not that Killian feels it. He strains against Whip and Jax’s hold. “Get the fuck off. You mother fucker…” And with that, he kicks Marlow. A security guard rushes into the fray.

I bite back another sob. Something soft and warm settles over my shoulders: a tiny beaded shrug jacket. At my side, a woman with heavy gold eye makeup gives me a small smile. “It’s all I have.” She puts an arm around me, drawing the shrug farther over my exposed shoulders. “You okay, hon?”

She’s a groupie. I know her on sight. And her kindness breaks me. I start to cry again. Two other women join us, closing ranks, protecting me from the cameras.

Maybe Killian’s rage has run its course. Maybe he hears me. Whatever the reason, he throws off Jax and Whip with a snarled “I’m good.”

His gaze finds me, and the ugly expression on his face crumples as he comes. “Libs.”

I clutch his shirt as he hugs me hard, his body damp with sweat. The rest is a blur as we’re ushered back to our room. But not before I see Scottie’s expression. Shit has clearly hit the fan.

“What the bloody hell was that?”

Killian looks up from his spot on the couch and gives Scottie a cold look. “That was me kicking a shitbag’s ass.”

He hasn’t stopped shaking, and he hasn’t let me go. Even when a doctor looked at his swollen and bruised hand—and suggested Killian should have an X-ray for broken bones—he had an arm around me, squeezing me tight. The only time he released me was to pull off his shirt and put it on me.

Scottie snorts now. “That shitbag was Marlow. The label’s newest and hottest young star, for fuck’s sake.”

Lovely. The sick feeling in my stomach intensifies.

“He’s going to be singing through a feeding tube if I see him again,” Killian snaps.

“At any rate,” Scottie retorts, “I was asking Libby, not you.”

All eyes turn to me, except for Killian’s. He just cuddles me closer. “Leave her the fuck alone. She’s been through enough.”

“It’s okay, Killian.” I rub my hand down his forearm, trying to calm him. He grunts but relaxes a little.

Scottie, Jax, Whip, Rye, and Brenna are all waiting. I take a deep breath, because remembering makes me shake as well. “He came out of nowhere,” I say. “Said that I should…” I glance at Killian.

He exhales a hard breath. “Just say it, baby doll. I’m not going to hunt him down or anything.”

This doesn’t sound remotely sincere.

“He suggested that since I was servicing all the members of Kill John, I should do the same with him.”

“Mother fucker,” snarls Killian.

“Dicknozzle,” Whip mutters.

The rest are silent. Waiting for me to continue.

“I…ah…told him what I thought about that, then I tried to leave.” Cold fear trickles down my spine. I’m safe. I know this. But I don’t feel it. At my side I feel Killian tense more and more. He’s practically twitching.

I blink several times. “He…ah…grabbed my breast.”

Killian makes a sound I can’t even interpret, and I’m suddenly on his lap, wrapped up tight. I breathe for a couple of seconds before I finish the story. “This blow-up was my fault.”

“No fucking way,” hisses Killian.

“It’s never your fault,” Brenna cuts in. She’s been silent until now. But I see the way she trembles. “Never.”

“I just meant, when he did that, I poked him in the eyes, tried to ball him. That’s what really set him off. He deserved it, but I should have handled it quietly, left sooner.”

“And I would have just beat the shit out of him sooner,” Killian says, pressing his face into the crook of my neck. “Baby doll, I’m so sorry.”