SHINKI
I am at my seat, my glass of Yamazaki a cold, forgotten weight in my hand. My gaze is locked on the exchange between Maisie and the man. The brute in the cheap shirt.
My grip tightens on the glass. I can see the tension in her shoulders, the way she pulls back a fraction of an inch. She doesn’t want him there. That much is clear.
She’s not doing a good job of spelling it out, I think, a flicker of irritation cutting through me. Why is she tolerating his presence? Why doesn’t she just shove him away?
And then I see it. His hand. It moves from the small of her back, lower, sliding down with a crude, possessive intent until it is cupping her ass.
My body is out of the seat before the thought fully forms. A reflex. A surge of pure, white-hot impulse that bypasses all logic and cal
