SLOANE
“So your solution is assault?” He took one deliberate step forward. I picked up the frying pan and tightened my grip on the handle, knuckles bleaching white. “What’s wrong, Winters? Can’t handle a word? Gotta resort to domestic violence?”
I barked a laugh—sharp, ugly, unrecognizable even to me. “Don’t you *dare*. Don’t you *dare* stand there and play victim after you spent the last ten minutes being a smug, condescending prick.”
He lunged.
He wasn’t a brawler; he was an athlete. The movement was fluid, economical, explosive. He didn’t reach for the pan—he reached for *me*. One hand clamped around my right wrist like a vice, twisting just enough to send white-hot sparks up my forearm. His other palm slammed flat against the island beside my hip, caging me between granite and two
