The MC President's Forsaken Wife (Zara and Knox) novel Chapter 22

Chapter 22

Zara

For ten long, loaded seconds, nobody moves.

The man chokes beneath Locke’s grip, boots scraping uselessly against the floor while the noise of the clubhouse seems to dull around us. Conversations falter at the edges as people realize exactly who they’re looking at and exactly how dangerous this could become if Locke Tanner decides he isn’t finished yet.

And through all of it, his arm never leaves my waist. Not once.

He keeps me locked tightly against his chest while his other hand holds a grown man effortlessly against the wall, calm enough to make the entire thing infinitely more terrifying.

Then Locke’s eyes zero in on me….and everything changes. Not in the room. In him.

The violence is still there, sharp and cold beneath the surface, but the second he looks at me, concern cuts through it instantly, roughening the edges of his expression in a way I don’t think most people ever get close enough to see.

“You hurt?” he rasps. “Tell me the truth right the fuck now.”

And dear God. The roughness in his voice almost undoes me more than the direct hit to my body did.

“I’m okay,” I say automatically, one hand instinctively clutching my stomach, even as the lie barely survives the sharp ache twisting through me. “I’m good.”

“No,” he says quietly. “You’re not.”

He turns that cold gray stare to the man slowing suffocating against the wall. “Fucking apologize, dickhead.”

The man sputters out an agonised I’m sorry, panicked now, his face flushed dark purple beneath Locke’s grip.

“You ever touch a woman again like that,” Locke says, steel in his tone. “And I’ll rip off your fucking arms, and beat you to death with them.”

Then Locke drops him unceremoniously, and the guy stumbles backward immediately, coughing hard as he disappears into the crowd without another word.

And still, Locke doesn’t let me go.

“You always strangle men against walls for strangers?” I ask softly, because humor feels safer than admitting the truth, which is that I don’t want him to move away from me.

Something flickers briefly at the corner of his mouth. “Only the ones dumb enough to hurt you, baby.”

Before I can recover from that surprising answer, he turns with me still tucked securely against him and starts guiding me through the crowd, his body shielding mine instinctively while people move aside the second they see his face.

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Nobody stops him. Nobody even looks twice. And God help me, the terrifying part is how natural it feels to Tet him take control like this, to let this hard, dangerous man guide me through chaos while his hand stays firm against my waist as though he’s already decided I’m his responsibility now.

The back room is quiet compared to the bar outside, dimly lit and smelling faintly of old leather and whiskey, and the second the door closes behind us, the silence settles around us heavily enough that I become painfully aware of every place his body is still touching mine.

Locke finally loosens his hold just enough to help me sit carefully onto the couch. One large hand stays braced at my waist while the other steadies my arm, his movements controlled and deliberate in a way that feels infinitely more intimate than if he’d touched me recklessly..

My body reacts to every second of it. The carefulness. The restraint. The way his hands look built for violence but touch me like I’m something worth protecting.

The second I shift slightly, pain pulls sharply through my stomach despite my effort to hide it.

Locke notices immediately. Of course he does.

He crouches in front of me, close enough now that I can see the faint scar near his chin, the pale grey of his eyes darkening slightly while they move slowly over my face like he’s checking for damage he hasn’t found yet.

And Christ. Nothing should feel this intimate between strangers.

“You’re hurting,” he says. “This is not a question, by the way.”

I try for a smile anyway. “You should see the other guy.”

His jaw tightens, and I know that he’s not amused. He’s concerned, and it’s real concern… and somehow that feels far more dangerous than the violence did/

Because men like Locke Tanner aren’t supposed to look at women this way. They’re not supposed to kneel in front of them with blood still hot in their veins and touch them gently enough to make something ache low in my chest.

His hand settles lightly against my side again. The contact sends a pulse of pain through me sharp enough that I inhale too quickly.

Locke goes still instantly. “Fuck,” he mutters quietly. “Did he crack a rib?”

“I’ve had worse,” I say lightly.

“You were already hurting before that asshole hit you,” he says, the roughness in his voice settling low beneath my skin. “He just made it worse.”

“Yes,” I say, seeing no reason to lie to this human x-ray machine anymore. “Getting hit in my stomach and side was definitely adding injury to injury.”

His eyes narrow slightly at that, his gaze dropping to the hand still pressed protectively against my side. And suddenly I realize he’s putting pieces together – and they aren’t the right pieces.

The silence stretches between us, thick and charged and full of things neither of us can articulate yet, while outside the muffled sound of music and laughter bleeds faintly through the walls.

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