“I’ve got you.” He stroked a hand down her hair. It had fallen free and was tumbling around her shoulders.

“That guy hit you hard.” Danger vibrated in Easton’s voice. His hand slid under her coat, one big hand spanning part of her rib cage. He probed gently.

She winced.

“Just bruised,” he murmured.

“Easton?”

His blue eyes met hers, churning with something she didn’t quite recognize.

“Yes?”

“Can you please hold me a bit longer?” Her body was trembling, and she couldn’t seem to control it.

He tugged her closer, her face pressed against his shirt.

It felt so good. Like she’d been looking for this very spot for so long.

“Better?” His voice rumbled under her ear.

She nodded and gripped him tighter.

Footsteps echoed behind her.

She tensed, and felt Easton do the same.

“You made a big mistake with that stunt, Armand.” The tone of Easton’s voice made her jerk.

He was furious.

Chapter Seven

Easton struggled to hold on to his control. With his blood still pumping through his veins from the fight, and the volcanic anger that Armand had tried to take Harlow—like she was a fucking commodity—and the fact that she was trembling in his arms, he was close to the edge.

He eyed Antoine. The man looked relaxed, his two guards hanging back. Easton wanted to plant his fist in the middle of the asshole’s face.

“I assure you, Norcross, this has nothing to do with me.”

Harlow turned, glaring at the man. “You said if I had dinner with you, that my dad would get forty-eight hours’ extra time.”

Easton ground his teeth together. Blackmailing her. Fucking scum.

“Those were not my men, Harlow,” Antoine insisted.

Easton frowned. From what he could tell, Armand wasn’t lying. Easton was sure the guy lied as easily as he breathed, but nothing he said now gave off a lying vibe.

In fact, the asshole looked concerned.

“Don’t worry,” Antoine continued. “I’ll find out who’s responsible and—”

“No,” Easton growled. “You aren’t coming near Harlow again.” He wrapped an arm around her and picked her up. She gasped, leaning against his chest, but didn’t fight him.

The shorter guard lunged forward. “Don’t fucking talk to him like that. He wants the bitch, I’ll get him the bitch.”

Armand threw an arm out, spewing out some French. The guard vibrated, scowled, then stepped back.

“I apologize for my cousin Hugo. He’s…spirited.”

Easton strode past Antoine. “She doesn’t exist for you anymore, Armand.” Easton stopped where he’d parked his Aston. He set her down and bleeped the locks.

“Easton—” Her voice wasn’t quite steady.

“Get in, baby.”

Her gaze met his, then she slid into the car.