Marilyn’s arrest

The air crackled with a sudden, sharp tension. Zoid’s hands, usually so adept at weaving comfort and pleasure, balled into fists. Marilyn’s lips on Luke’s were an affront, a violation that sent a jolt of pure fury through Zoid. Before Luke could even react, Zoid was moving, a blur of blue hair and righteous anger. They shoved Marilyn back, hard, the woman stumbling with a startled yelp.

“What the hell do you think you’re doing?” Zoid’s voice, usually a melodic murmur, was a low, dangerous growl. They stepped between Marilyn and Luke, a protective shield. Luke, his emerald eyes wide with shock and a flicker of something else – anger, perhaps, or disgust – was already pulling away from Marilyn, wiping his mouth with the back of his hand.

Marilyn, regaining her balance, narrowed her eyes at Zoid. “He’s mine,” she hissed, her voice dripping with entitlement. “You don’t know him. You never will.”