JAX'S POV
Time didn't just slow down; it completely stopped.
The jagged edge of that broken scotch glass caught the amber light of the bar, flashing like a blade as Brad lunged across the table straight toward Mila. He was a cornered rat, a spoiled, desperate punk who had lost his money, his leverage, and his mind.
I didn't think. I didn't breathe. My goalie instincts—the raw, hardwired reflexes that spent decades intercepting hundred-mile-an-hour pucks in thick chaos—took over my entire body.
Before the glass could even get within a foot of Mila’s beautiful face, my left hand shot out.
I grabbed Brad’s wrist mid-air.
The grip of my fingers was like a steel vice, clamping down so hard on his bone that he let out a sharp, high-pitched shriek of agony. The jagged glass hovered inches a
