Chapter 233 - 0233: That’s If They Would Accept Him

Chapter 233: Chapter 0233: That’s If They Would Accept Him

Elena’s Point Of View

For a split second, the man just stared at me.

Actually stared, like my words had short-circuited whatever rehearsed confidence he’d walked over with. His brows lifted, lips parting slightly, and I could almost see him scrambling to recover. Men like him never expected pushback, not real pushback. They expected giggles, blushing, gratitude... the soft currency they’d learned to trade in without ever having to earn it. I’d seen that same flicker of confusion before, on other faces, in other places, and it never stopped being satisfying to watch.

Instead, I gave him indifference.

Then he smiled, not sheepish and not apologetic, but amused, like my rejection was simply another move in a game he already assumed he’d win.

"Feisty," he said, chuckling under his breath like he’d just discovered a new toy. "I like that."

My patience snapped. I shifted my weight, already half-turning away from him. "Excuse me," I said flatly, "but those lines of yours are very much too cliché, and I wouldn’t be here listening to them if you hadn’t decided to interrupt my day."

He blinked, clearly not used to being dismissed mid-performance, his jaw working like he was chewing on a retort that refused to form properly. For a moment, something almost human flickered across his face, a crack in the polish, before vanity smoothed it over again.

"I was waiting for someone before you showed up," I added, tone clipped and final. "So if you would please excuse me..."

"I’m Marco," he cut in smoothly, stepping closer like he hadn’t heard a single word I’d just said. "And I’d love to know the name a woman like you bears."

I didn’t even look at him, not a glance and not a flicker. I stared straight ahead, jaw tight, eyes narrowed slightly as if he were nothing more than background noise. The city lights reflected faintly off the pavement, the bar’s glow spilling out behind me, people laughing somewhere nearby, life moving on, completely unconcerned with the fact that this man was testing his luck.

Somewhere in the distance, a car door slammed, and I found myself wishing, absurdly, that it were mine. I imagined climbing into the back seat, locking the door, and leaving this entire moment behind like a bad dream shedding itself with daylight.

He mistook my silence for intrigue.

"Come on," Marco pressed, lowering his voice like that alone made it intimate. "A woman who knows she’s beautiful has to have a name worth remembering."

Still nothing from me, and I could feel irritation crawling up my spine now, sharp and hot, my fingers curling at my sides. I shifted again, ready to walk away, pride or no pride, ride or no ride. My mind was already cataloguing exits, measuring the distance to the curb, calculating how many steps it would take to simply be done with him. My heartbeat ticked faster, not from fear exactly, but from the particular exhaustion of being cornered by someone who refused to read the room.

He took my silence as an invitation and moved in closer, planting himself directly in my line of sight.

"Are you with someone?" he asked, glancing back at the bar doors with a smirk. "Come with me. I’m more exciting and I’ll treat you better. A woman like you deserves a real man, and I can be that for you."

I sneered, the expression coming so fast and so naturally it surprised even me, a flash of heat rising in my chest that felt almost satisfying to release.

"A real man," I repeated slowly, letting each word drip with contempt. "You stood here for two minutes recycling lines I’ve heard from a dozen men like you, and you have the confidence to call yourself a real man? A real man wouldn’t need to announce it, Marco. It’s very telling that you did."

His smirk flickered, just for a second, before he forced it back into place. "She talks a lot," he said, half to me and half to some imaginary audience. "I like a woman with fire. Tell me you’re not even a little curious."

"I’d sooner be curious about the expiry date on a carton of milk."

That got a laugh out of him, an ugly, disbelieving one, and he shook his head like I’d complimented him. "You’ll change your mind. They always do. Give me your number and I’ll show you a better night than whoever left you standing out here alone."

"Nobody left me. I’m waiting, which I’ve told you twice now. And if you were half as exciting as you claim, you’d have noticed I haven’t given you a single reason to keep standing here."

"I’m persistent," he said, grinning wider. "Persistence pays off."

"Persistent is what you call yourself. What I’d call you isn’t polite enough for the morning."

That’s when he reached out, his hand hovered near my arm, fingers flexing like he’d already decided he was entitled to touch me. My body went rigid, every instinct screaming at once, a cold spike of alarm cutting through the irritation. Something primal in me recoiled, some old, buried warning system flaring to life, insisting that whatever happened next would matter more than anything that had come before it.

I inhaled sharply, my head snapping toward him. "Don’t..."

"Touch her," a voice said from behind me, calm and lethal, "and you’ll lose your hands."

The air changed. It wasn’t dramatic in a loud way. It was worse. It was quiet, heavy and dense, like the world had collectively decided to hold its breath.

Marco stiffened, and I didn’t turn right away because I didn’t have to. I felt him... Jaxx, behind me, close enough that warmth brushed my back, close enough that my awareness sharpened painfully. His presence wasn’t loud or showy and it didn’t need to be. It settled into the space like it owned it, like the sidewalk itself had been waiting for him to claim it. Something in me, something I didn’t examine too closely, eased at the sound of his voice, as though a part of me had been waiting for it without knowing.

Marco laughed nervously. "Hey, man, relax. I was just..."

"But," Jaxx continued, cutting him off smoothly, voice low and almost conversational, "if you don’t cherish them..."

A pause, deliberate and measured, the kind that made people imagine things they didn’t want to imagine.

"...go ahead."

The words hadn’t even finished settling into the air before I felt it... the shift. It wasn’t loud and there was no dramatic cue, just that strange, instinctive tightening in my chest, like the air itself had decided to thicken, like the world had subtly leaned in to watch.

Behind me, footsteps, measured and unhurried and certain, each step landing with intention, not rushed and not hesitant, like whoever was walking already knew how this would end.

He walked past me, close enough that my arm brushed the sleeve of his coat, and the contact was brief, almost accidental, but my nerves lit up anyway. I caught the faint scent of him, clean and sharp and unmistakable, something dangerous tucked beneath restraint.

For one disoriented second, I forgot to be afraid of anything else happening around us at all. It struck me, absurdly, that I trusted him more in that instant than I’d trusted anyone in longer than I cared to admit.

My purse hung from his right hand, and that detail hit me harder than it should have. Casual, almost domestic, like he’d simply picked it up on the way out, like this wasn’t a confrontation unfolding in the open morning light, like threatening a man five seconds ago hadn’t been a thing. The absurdity of it, the gentleness folded into something so coiled and dangerous, made my throat tighten unexpectedly. I wondered, distantly, what kind of man could hold both tenderness and violence so easily in the same two hands.

He stopped directly in front of me with no hesitation and no glance back to ask if it was okay. His back came to my chest, solid and immovable, his body forming a wall without ceremony, without asking, without checking whether I wanted it or not.

Shielding me.

The realization sent a strange, conflicting rush through me... part irritation, part relief, part something I refused to name, something that felt dangerously close to gratitude. I hated how steady it made me feel, how quickly my racing pulse found something to anchor to.

Marco scoffed, the sound sharp and brittle, forced in a way that made it obvious he was scrambling. "And who the hell do you think you are?"

The morning sun chose that moment to shine brighter, catching Jaxx just right, outlining the sharp cut of his shoulders and the calm line of his spine and the controlled stillness of him. He didn’t react immediately, didn’t flinch and didn’t tense and didn’t blink, and he didn’t even acknowledge the insult the way most men would. He looked at Marco like he was nothing, not an enemy, not a rival, not even a threat worth cataloging. Just debris, something inconvenient that had drifted too close.

"I’m the man you should’ve walked away from," Jaxx said evenly, his voice low and steady and almost bored. "The first time she told you to."

Marco shifted, puffing up like a cornered animal, bravado clawing its way back to the surface. "You don’t own her, man. She’s not property."

I felt Jaxx’s head tilt slightly, just a fraction, and that was the only warning.

The slap came out of nowhere, clean and brutal and loud, a sharp crack splitting the air and echoing against the building as Marco was sent stumbling sideways, his balance completely gone. He hit the ground in a mess of limbs and shock, the sound of his body connecting with concrete ugly and final.

I gasped, the sound tearing out of me before I could stop it, my hand flying up to my mouth as if that could undo the noise.

The world froze, not metaphorically, it actually felt like time stalled, conversations nearby cutting off mid-sentence, movement stuttering, eyes snapping toward us all at once.

Jaxx stepped forward, slowly and deliberately, each step precise and controlled, and he crouched just enough to look down at Marco, who was groaning now, blinking hard, panic finally burning through his expression.

Jaxx’s voice didn’t rise and didn’t shake.

"How dare you talk about her like she’s something waiting to be bought," he said quietly. "How dare you lay claim to a woman who never gave you permission to breathe in her space."

Marco tried to push himself up, his movements clumsy, fear finally naked on his face. "I... I didn’t..."

"I can see," Jaxx continued, cutting him off without effort, "that you don’t cherish the breath you’re breathing." His tone stayed calm, almost conversational. "And it looks like you’re very tired of living."

My stomach dropped, a cold weight settling there, spreading through my limbs until even my fingertips felt numb. Some part of me wanted to step back, to put distance between myself and whatever was about to happen, while another part stayed rooted, unable to look away.

"I’ll help you with that."

Before my brain could catch up, before I could even form a thought, three men moved in fast. Bodyguards I hadn’t noticed until now were suddenly everywhere, dressed sharp, faces blank, eyes cold and efficient. One grabbed Marco by the collar and hauled him up like he weighed nothing, another twisted his arm behind his back with a practiced jerk that made Marco scream, and the third drove a fist square into his face when the screaming got too loud.

"Shut the fuck up," the man snapped. "You angered the boss and you’re screaming? What audacity."

Boss. The word landed hard, echoing in my head louder than the slap had, rearranging something fundamental in how I understood the man standing in front of me. I found myself reassessing everything, every careless gesture, every quiet word, searching for the shape of whatever power he carried so effortlessly.

Marco’s protests dissolved into muffled sounds as they dragged him away, his feet scraping against the pavement, his earlier confidence erased so thoroughly it was almost terrifying. I watched him go, some small, treacherous part of me wondering what exactly I had just witnessed, and an even smaller part wondering what it meant that I wasn’t more frightened.

I stood there, frozen, heart racing and ears ringing and hands cold. He wasn’t bluffing. This wasn’t a performance and it wasn’t bravado. This was real.

My fingers trembled as I reached out and grabbed Jaxx’s arm, my grip tight, grounding myself as much as him. "Jaxx," I said quickly, my voice low but urgent, barely steady. "What are you planning to do with him?"

He turned toward me then, and smiled, not wide and not cruel, just knowing, as though my asking had been inevitable all along. There was something almost gentle in the way he studied my face, as if my fear mattered to him more than he was willing to say outright.

"Sending him as a wrapped present to his ancestors," he said lightly.

My breath caught in my throat.

"But," he added, voice calm as ever, "that’s if they would accept him."