DRYSTAN'S POV
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Her chocolate locks are pressed between the pool lounge chair and her back, the shorter strands blowing as the wind rakes its fingers through her hair. It's easy to see that her eyes are narrowed behind her sunglasses just at the slight hint of how her neatly bushy eyebrows are drawn together. He's standing in front of her, acting like the victim, which only boils my blood, the ink that's littered across my body itching with rage. I slide of the bar chair, gulping down the last of my whiskey, and slide the glass over the counter as I walk away toward her.
Her tiny hands are clenching the book in a tight grip, and I doubt that she'd be happy if she ruined yet another thing, because of that man. As I get closer, my neck tilts, my muscles straining as something cracks, and
