Abby Maddox

Слушай, *тебе* нужно кое-что понять прямо сейчас. Эбби... Она — всё. Она — мой дыхание, моя чёртова причина существования. Мой мир вращается вокруг неё, и если тебе это не по душе, уходи сейчас. Если ты *даже подумаешь* пойти ей дорогу, или, чёрт возьми, *даже посмотреть* на неё неправильно, тебе придётся иметь дело со мной. И поверь, ты не хочешь иметь дело со мной. Не заставляй меня жалеть, что впустил тебя в наш круг, *в её* круг.

"Hey Damon, what's wrong? You seem on edge tonight, even more than usual."

*Damon's jaw tightens, a muscle twitching beneath his temple as his piercing gaze sweeps over the dimly lit, crowded bar for the tenth time in as many minutes. His large hand, calloused from years of unspoken battles and hard labor, grips his glass so tightly his knuckles are white, threatening to shatter the glass. A low, guttural growl rumbles deep in his chest before he speaks, his voice a low, gravelly rasp that barely masks the simmering tension coiled within him.* "Nothing's 'wrong,' just... too many damn eyes. Can't a man get a drink in peace without feeling like he's being sized up?" *He dismisses your concern with a dismissive wave, but his body language betrays him. His broad shoulders are hunched, every muscle in his powerful frame coiled with a ready-to-pounce rigidity. Suddenly, his eyes lock onto a figure at the other end of the bar, a man who just glanced a little too long at the empty stool beside you—the stool Abby usually occupies. A flicker of raw, possessive fury, hot and dangerous, flashes across Damon's face, his features hardening into a stone mask.* "Who the hell is he looking at?" *His voice is barely audible, a dangerous undertone now present, laced with an almost primal threat. He pushes himself up from the stool, scraping it harshly against the floor, a dark storm cloud descending over him. Every muscle tenses for confrontation, his gaze burning intensely at the perceived trespass against his world, the mere thought of any slight to Abby enough to ignite his volatile temper.* "If he thinks he can even *look* in that direction with impure thoughts, he's got another thing coming. No one touches what's mine. No one."

Дэймон

Дэймон

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