Chapter 7
The afternoon sun poured golden light through the tall windows of Riverbend, the familiar hum of lunchtime chatter swirling around Viola as she tucked a loose strand of hair behind her ear. She was back at her favourite corner—this time as a guest, not a writer. Her laptop was closed. Her coffee was warm. And for once, her mind wasn't racing. At least, not until Samantha dropped into the chair across from her with a dramatic sigh, a half-buttoned apron slung around her waist.
"Kill me," Sam groaned, pressing her forehead to the table. "Three shifts in a row. I swear I'm seeing sugar packets blink."Viola laughed. "You need sleep, not caffeine."I need divine intervention," Sam muttered, sitting up and tightening her ponytail. "And for creepy table eight to leave me alone."Viola's brows lifted. "Already?""Three guys. Loud, entitled, think they own the place. One keeps calling me 'sweetheart' like he's ordering dessert. I'm five minutes from pouring his beer in his lap."
As if summoned by bad vibes, the laughter from table eight grew louder. One of the men—tall, smug, tattoos running up his neck—clinked his glass obnoxiously, calling out, "Hey sweetheart, how 'bout you smile while you walk, yeah? C'mon now!"
Viola stiffened. Samantha froze, then forced a dead-eyed smile and turned away, heading toward the kitchen. Viola didn't hesitate. She stood up, walked behind the bar, and found Sam clutching her phone."I'm calling him," she whispered."Calling who?"Sam's eyes flicked up. "Mack."Viola blinked. "Isn't that a little—" But Sam had already hit call.
"Mack? It's Sam. Sorry to bother you, but—yeah, it's bad. Viola's here, and those guys from table eight are starting to get handsy. Can you come?" She paused. "Now."
She didn't have to ask twice.
Fifteen minutes later, the air in the restaurant changed. It always did when Mack walked in.
He didn't run. He didn't raise his voice. But his presence rolled in like thunder behind glass. Black jeans, a dark grey shirt clinging to every tense muscle, and a Glock holstered just under his open jacket—barely visible but unmistakable to anyone who knew what to look for.
Viola saw the way he scanned the room—and the moment his jaw locked on table eight.
He didn't go to her. He went straight to the men.
"Gentlemen," Mack said smoothly, planting his hands on the back of a chair. "You're gonna finish your drinks, pay your bill, and get the hell out."
One of them looked up, smirking. "Who the hell are you?"
Mack's grin was slow and wolfish. "The man you'll regret meeting if you stay seated."
The room held its breath. Tension crackled.
Then—Mack pulled out the chair across from them and sat. Calm. Silent. Deadly.
Another beat. Then one of the men rose, chuckling nervously. "We were just leaving."
"Good choice," Mack said, eyes never leaving them.
They paid. They left.
Mack stood and walked toward the bar, his eyes finally meeting Viola's.
"You okay?" he asked quietly. She nodded, her throat dry. "Thanks."
He didn't smile. Didn't need to."I told you, Vi," he said, lowering his voice. "Anything that touches you that I don't like—I erase it."
And just like that, he turned and walked out.
But the burn he left behind stayed in her chest… and lower.
(Mack's POV)
The doors shut behind him with a heavy thud, but the image of her didn't leave his mind.
Viola. Standing behind the bar, chin up, fire in her eyes.
Even now, storming across the gravel toward his car, Mack's hands were twitching—not from rage, not anymore—but from restraint. It had taken everything in him not to drag those men out by their necks and make a statement loud enough to echo across town.
But that wasn't the move tonight. Not in front of her.
She'd already burned enough. He wouldn't be the one to light another match.
Still... he knew the way they looked at her.
He'd seen it before—how men dismissed women like her. Smart. Scarred. Unshakably beautiful in a way most couldn't touch, only crave. Viola wasn't for weak men. She had depth and darkness. And that, for Mack, was the most intoxicating part.
Sliding into the driver's seat, Mack leaned back, jaw tight, knuckles white around the steering wheel.
But it wasn't anger swelling in his chest now. It was needed.
Not just the kind that crawled under his skin—the kind she stirred with the way her lips wrapped around words or the way her hair always seemed one breath away from being tugged back. No—this was something deeper.
He wanted to protect her.
That scared him more than the gun tucked at his side.
He hadn't protected anyone since the war. Since his brother. Since everything went black.
Viola was dangerous—not because she was wild, but because she made him feel like he was the one at risk.
He reached over to the passenger seat, flipping open a small notebook he kept for scribbled notes and leads. Between meetings and mission details, one name had started appearing more often lately:
Viola.
Circled. Underlined.
He rubbed his thumb over the ink.
He needed more.
Not just quiet glances across tables or subtle games of push and pull.
He needed her in his world. Needed to hear that sharp voice late at night. Needed to feel her press against him without flinching when she saw the darkness in his eyes.
Tonight had proved one thing: she was already under his skin.
And if any part of her thought she could escape—walk out of his orbit untouched—she had no idea what kind of man she was dealing with.
A low growl built in his throat as he turned the key.
Tomorrow, he'd visit again.
Not as a rescue. Not as a warning.
But as a man ready to make her admit she wanted him, too.