The night of the altercation.
Demarcus sat in his car outside Salome's apartment building, watching the lights in her window flicker off one by one.
10:47 PM on a Sunday night, and he'd just left her apartment with his hand still throbbing from where she'd bitten him. His shirt was torn. His pride was shattered.
And the neighbor's threat—I'm calling the police—still rang in his ears.
He should have been scared. Should have been worried about what would happen if Salome actually pressed charges, if the police actually believed her this time.
But he wasn't.
Because sitting in that car, watching her silhouette move behind the curtains as she checked on Kai, Demarcus felt something else entirely.
Rage.
Pure, white-hot, all-consuming rage.
She'd bitten him. Fought him. Screamed at him
