KNOCKOUT (Harry Styles: Dark Sequel)

Chapter 8

"Bo," Harry ushers.

"I'm right here."

His hand reaches out behind him and I meet his desperate fingers. With knuckles cracked and bleeding, he squeezes to reaffirm my words.

"The trouble you've caused me, Styles, is beginning to grind on my nerves."

There's control in his voice but the venomous undertones pry to the surface.

The suited man meanders around the office, regarding the framed pictures on the wall with a sneer. He flicks at paper pinned to the noticeboard with disinterest before gracing us once again with a cold gaze. But my consideration strays toward the broad-shouldered fighter apparently looking for a second round with Harry. Like a bull about to charge, it's probably best not to raise a red flag. But I do it anyway. Stepping slightly to the side, I'm certain he sees me.

"Harry won," I challenge, my words twisting like a knife in the already open wound. "You need to leave."

The fighter makes to barrel forward but he's prevented once again. He shakes off the hold, chest rumbling with distain before he strops like a teenager out of the office. The look Harry throws my way certainly isn't one of gratitude. However, the exchange has eased my temper. I'm encouraged behind him again with a firm hand.

"We both know who should have won. If he wasn't such a fucking exhibitionist," he suited guy gestures to the open doorway, "you'd have been scraping Harry up from the fucking floor."

The words bite and I want to scratch his eyes out. As I'm contemplating the thought, he wickedly smiles.

"How's the eye, Harry? Still giving you trouble?" He snidely asks. "You got off lightly compared to what my incompetent staff should have done."

My mouth dries and the shock bleeds through to the hold Harry tightens on my wrist. I can feel him silently pleading for me to keep quiet because he knows I won't. There's not much Harry can do before I've slipped his grip and I'm standing in front of him.

"You're the one who did this?"

The man understands what I'm asking without me having to point to the scar slicing down Harry's face and through his injured eye. His expression changes, drawing cruel amusement from the tremble in my voice.

"Not personally," he remarks, eyes glittering.

"That's worse, giving the orders but not committing the act."

"If you're doubting my certitude, I suggest you don't."

He aggressively stalks forward and Harry cushions me as I mirror his steps back. An arm cradles my side, a ready hand on my waist. I glance up to him wondering why he's been so quiet during the exchange. It's as his eyes dart back and forth between the men blocking the doorway that I realise he's frightened.

"Anyway," the boss claps his hands with a jovial grin, all bitterness instantly forgotten. "We didn't come here to chat, did we Jack?"

At the mention of his name, the remaining muscle steps into view. He's at least half a foot taller than Harry, with an unnerving twitch to his right eye and arms that are barely contained in his shirt. He starts to roll his sleeves up as he edges towards us.

"We came to ensure my financial assets aren't going to be compromised for a while. Which I'm sorry to say is bad news for you, Harry," the man feigns concern with a shake to his head. "I can't have you winning anymore fights against my competitors, it's bad for business."

I prepare to scream for help. If I alert Mack maybe he can kick up a fuss with the threat of authorities; spook them a bit and buy Harry time.

Harry's hand clamps to mine.