On a savage groan, Heath threw his body against Cannon and they both went down.

Not a problem.

Despite the overload of emotion, Cannon moved with precision. Heath thought he had the advantage, being on top. Allowing him to raise up a little, Cannon waited for him to throw a punch, then isolated his arm. Too fast for Heath to see it coming, he used his legs to trap his head and upper body, one leg under Heath’s chin, the other across his chest with his arm between. Lifting his hips, he extended Heath’s arm until he popped his shoulder.

Then popped it again, ensuring he’d dislocated the joint.

Heath gave a wounded-bear roar. The second Cannon released him, he tried to curl in on himself.

Wasn’t happening.

Still driven by fury, Cannon punched his smug face again, heavy punches, right fist, then left, right again—

“Enough.” Armie tackled him away from Heath and they both went down on the rough gravel. When Cannon instinctively fought him off, Armie said again, “Enough.”

Cannon meant what he’d said. He wanted to kill Heath.

Arms locked around Cannon’s torso, Armie said in a harsh whisper, “This isn’t the audience you want to perform for.”

The black cloud dissipated and reality sank in. Familiar faces from the bar circled them, moving in, all talking, taking pictures with their cell phones.

Breathing hard, Cannon easily shrugged Armie off.

Easy only because Armie wasn’t fighting him. It was more a matter of keeping him from killing the putz.

“Rowdy called Logan,” Armie told him. “Sorry.”

“Doesn’t matter.” His body still singing with the need for violence, he pushed to his feet. The flashes from a dozen camera phones continued to light the night. “Fuck.”

“Take a breath,” Armie advised.

He tried. But what he felt right then, pure bloodlust, was night and day from a sanctioned fight where he used his cool to win. Different from the defense he offered to the neighborhood businesses to counter bullying thugs. Different from...anything he’d ever known.

This was red-hot, blind and...strangling the f**k out of him.

Sticking close, maybe in case he went after Heath again, Armie said, “She could use a little of that control you’re known for.”

He’d been avoiding looking at Yvette, only because in that moment he didn’t know himself. He’d fought in plenty of competitions. Fought for justice. Fought for friends.

Three years ago, he’d fought twisted f**ks who’d tried to rape Yvette, who probably would have killed her. That had been devastating. For her and for him.

But this was so much more personal, because back then she’d been a sweet girl from the neighborhood. Too young. Untouchable.

And now...now she was his.

He’d never fought for anything this important.

The second his gaze found her, standing well away from Heath’s car, cradling one arm and looking lost on many levels, he had to touch her.

Had to.

He started toward her. To his surprise, she sucked it up, squared her shoulders and came to meet him halfway. When they were close, she bit her lip, undecided.

He made up her mind for her, gathering her close, his arms locking around her, holding her but mindful of her arm.

It took him a bit, but he asked, “You’re okay?”

She gave a small, jerky nod. “I’m so sorry.”

For only a second more, he kept her against him, absorbing her scent and softness and the steady beating of her heart. But, damn it, she had the means to set him on fire with need, and to piss him off with confusion. Without even trying she left him undone and in pieces.

Another breath helped, one more, and by the third he could grasp sanity again.

“First,” he grated, his voice hoarse, “your arm?”

“I’m fine.”

His jaw flexed until his temples hurt. “Let me see.” He tried to take her arm, but she resisted.

“Cannon.” In a hushed, breaking whisper, she told him, “My shirt is ripped,” as if she’d committed a sin.

“I’ll give you another shirt. Hell, I’ll give you fifty f**king shirts.” Okay, so maybe sanity wasn’t quite attainable just yet. One more deep breath, and more firmly this time, “Let me see your arm.”

She ducked her face and managed to hold the pieces of the oversize shirt together while letting him look.

Bruises already purpled her skin, and damn if that didn’t throw a match on the smoldering embers of his temper. “I should have broken his leg, too. Or his f**king neck.”

“No.” Her breath hitched, a little too high and thin. “You shouldn’t even be involved in this mess.”

It was the wrong thing—the worst thing—to say to him.

Stepping away from her seemed his best choice, but he only got two feet before storming back. “I’m involved because we’re involved.”

Eyes widening, lips parting, she stroked him like a mongrel dog. “I know,” she said softly, her tone soothing, “and I’m glad.”

Glad? She was f**king glad?

“But you don’t have time for—”

“What? You?”

No answer, just a lot of flinching uncertainty. He wanted to pull back, to be what she so obviously needed right now, but he couldn’t.

“Sex?” He tunneled a hand into her hair, anchoring her to him. “A relationship?”

She blinked big, bewildered eyes. “I don’t know.”