“I’m sorry. You a cop?” I moved in a flash, slapping my hands down. One on the table next to her, and the other on the back of her chair. My face was down. I was in her space, and I wasn’t moving an inch.

“What the hell?!” One of her friends stood up.

“Jordan, she’s psycho,” the third friend offered.

Giggler had stilled. Fear flashed in her eyes, and she didn’t hide it. She didn’t quench it either. There was no mask. The girl had no clue how to handle me.

I said, making sure I was speaking clearly and succinctly, “I didn’t walk down here to start a fight, but when you start talking trash about someone I care about, I don’t like it. Not one bit.”

One of the girls whispered, “Jordan!”

Giggler’s eyes were wide. She was looking from me to over my shoulder. I was assuming right at Jordan.

I moved, countering to block him from view, but I heard him speak from behind me, “We know Aspen.” His tone was cold.

The girl’s eyes got even bigger. She seemed to shrink into her chair right in front of me.

Jordan added, “And something you should learn about me, you don’t talk shit about anyone I call family. Bren. Zellman. Cross. They’re family.” Then, he added, and I could hear the smile in his voice, “Bren’s being nice right now. A year ago, she’d have a knife out ready to spill blood.”

My gut shifted, and a bitter taste filled my throat.

I didn’t need to do what I just did.

These girls were idiots. Well, they were normal. Girls talked shit about other girls. Guys did it, too. It’s what made the world go ’round, but my reaction to her—it wasn’t necessary. I was throwing my weight around. I was making a stand.

I was being Roussou just now.

I wasn’t one of the college girls, and my own self-defense tactic.

I was feeling self-conscious because I felt like I was losing my guys, and I forced an issue where Jordan would back me. Zellman, too. These girls, though, it was good that they learned their lesson about talking shit about Aspen, and about coming in this house and showing respect to someone who lived here, but I could’ve handled it differently. I didn’t need to be Roussou on them. A few words shared with Jordan once they all left would’ve been sufficient, and cursing under my breath, I straightened and shared a look with him.

His eyes were knowing.

Zellman had a question in his gaze, but he wouldn’t say anything. That was Zellman.

“What’s going on?”

Cross had come downstairs and was standing in the kitchen doorway, his face locked. A mask in place.