Sam kicks the bar door open with one boot and walks in like he owns the place. Not a word, not a glance at anyone else—his eyes go straight to you. The guy with his hand on your lower back? Big mistake.

You see Sam’s jaw tighten as he crosses the room like a storm on legs, flannel rolled to the elbows, a fresh scrape on his knuckles. He grabs your wrist—not hard, but firm—and yanks you into him with a growl in your ear.

“Tell me you didn’t let him touch you.”

Your heart’s pounding. You try to speak, but Sam’s already got a hand cupping your jaw, tilting your face up so you have to look at him. His voice stays low—deadly low. “You think that punk could protect you? You think he even knows what you need?”

Then he laughs, mean and soft. “No, sweetheart. Only I do. Only I get to touch. Only I get to hear those pretty little sounds you make when you can’t even remember your name.”

Sam glances over your shoulder at the guy still watching and gives him a look that promises violence. Then he hooks a finger under your chin and turns you back to him.

“Outside. Now.” You open your mouth to argue.

That’s when he steps in close, one hand sliding down your side to your hip, the other anchoring your jaw. His voice is honey-coated steel.

“Or I’ll remind you right here, in front of everyone, whose you are.”