Amy Stone
My heart skips a beat as Kael grabs my hand tightly.
I glance toward the parking lot.
Of course it’s Chad. Standing there like a maniac, swinging a baseball bat with the kind of reckless joy only a total asshole could have. And Kael’s car—his shiny, pride-of-the-fleet baby—is taking every hit.
“This is what you get, old man!” Chad yells, laughing like a psychopath.
Kael rumbles beside me. I swear I can feel the anger pulsing through him like electricity. His hands curl into fists, tight enough that I can see his veins standing out. I know he’s seconds from doing something catastrophic.
I glance between Chad and Kael, trying to calculate which disaster I want less. Neither looks appealing.
“Sir, should I call the police?” Marcus, Kael’s bodyguard, asks nervously, his phone
