Evie quietly reaches into the recycling bin next to her and fishes out an empty champagne bottle, wincing when the ones underneath it shift and clink. If Misha is actually hurting this man, she will—

“Mr Pickford-Jones has gotta go sit down at his family’s party,” says the lead security guard, a big, bullet-headed man with cauliflower ears. He cracks his knuckles. The second man is wiry, with the intense glint of the fanatic in his eyes.

“I’m not asking, either,” says Misha, still blocking the fragile blond from the security team with his body. “Mr Pickford-Jones is tired and I am going to drive him home. He has put in an appearance, been photographed by the right people, and that is sufficient.”

“N-no, Misha, it’s okay, we t-tried, I’ll just go back and do the dinner,” says the smaller man, wincing and adjusting his glasses. Evie notices that his bad eye has a cut on the edge of the socket that was hidden by the frames, maybe even an orbital fracture.

The bastard who hit him wore a ring.

Evie’s eyes immediately skate down to Misha’s hands. He has long, artist’s fingers, and wears no rings. Her own hands relax on the champagne bottle.

“I’d listen to Mr Jones if I were you, buddy. Unless you want us to do this by force,” says the other security guard. Evie notices both guards have guns in holsters at their waists, hidden under jackets.

“You’re welcome to try,” Misha says, slipping off his jacket and tossing it onto a pallet of clean glasses. “But let’s not do this in front of Stewart, shall we?”

Stewart puts a hand on his arm and Misha picks it up, kissing his knuckles, exactly the motion Evie had imagined when she met him.

Stewart gazes up at him and in a shaky voice just says, “Please, Misha,” tugging his hand. Evie realizes he’s not just terrified for himself, he’s terrified what the bodyguards will do to Misha.

Misha turns Stewart’s hand over, and places a set of car keys into it. “If we get separated, wait for me in the car,” Misha whispers to him. “I won’t be long.”

“But—” Stewart says.

Misha presses a kiss to his temple. “Everything will be okay. Trust me.” He puts his arm around Stewart and walks him towards the exit, slowly at first, then with more purpose.

Just as they pass Evie’s hiding place, the security team breaks into a run. Misha gives Stewart a gentle shove in the direction of the exit. Stewart gets the message and flees, out towards the loading area.

Then Misha turns back the way he came and strides headlong into trouble, a wild glint in his eyes.

Seeing Misha shift into aggressive motion, Evie understands that his body’s considerable strength isn’t the product of fancy trainers and endless repetitions in a gym. He moves like a fighter, a soldier; like someone who has had a lot of training and even more practical experience in fucking other people up.

The first bodyguard rushes in to meet him, fists up. Thick knuckles and cauliflower ears. He’s big, 250 to 280 pounds, but slow.

Misha isn’t.

He has the bodyguard down in three moves, dodging the man’s opening punch and kicking down to shatter his kneecap, then sending him to the ground with a wicked right hook.

He’s still watching the downed guard to see if he’s going to get up when, with a splutter of curses, the second bodyguard yanks his gun out of its holster and raises it.

Evie only realizes what she’s doing when she’s almost on the guy. She intends to shout but instead just manages a startled squeak, and clocks the guy over the back of the head with the champagne bottle.

In her mind this was supposed to result in the guard faceplanting into the floor, unconscious, the unfired gun skittering out of his hands.

But it doesn’t.

The gun goes off just as she hits him, frighteningly loud in the hard-walled corridor, and Evie feels terror clutch at her stomach when she sees that the gun was pointed straight at Misha, and it gets worse as the guard turns around to face her, crimson with fury, his gun now pointed at her.

Evie clasps the empty champagne bottle to her chest in terror and backs up straight into the bus cart of empties, which clatters alarmingly. “I’m sorry!” is all she gets out, before the guard’s eyes narrow, and—

—Misha’s fist crashes into the side of his head. It sends him reeling sideways into the bus cart Evie had been hiding behind. The guard rebounds off it with a crash, then staggers once, as if the floor were doing him a great injustice by remaining still, before he sinks to his knees. Misha looks down at Evie, his eyes sparkling with amusement, as she begins to unclench from her huddle next to the bus cart. She’s panting, terrified, sweating. Misha is none of these things. He’s shaking out a blue and white polka dot handkerchief he’s pulled from a pocket, and the only sign he’s been in a scuffle is a few locks of his hair in mild disarray. As he uses the handkerchief to wipe a smear of someone else’s blood off his knuckles, he murmurs, “A for effort. C for technique.”

Evie doesn’t know whether to swear at him or start crying, but the choice is taken from her by movement in her peripheral vision. The downed guard’s hand is creeping towards his gun, half-hidden under the bus cart. She narrows her eyes, raises the bottle, and whacks the guy solidly on the temple. He slumps to the floor and stays down.

“Hmph,” Misha says. “B minus.”

“Are you okay?” Evie asks, aching from the adrenalin pounding through her body. “The gun, I thought… He was aiming right at you.”

Misha shakes his head. But as he goes to replace his handkerchief in his pocket, Evie’s eyes follow the motion… and she sees the small hole in his white shirt, no larger than her little finger. “Holy shit,” she gasps. “You were shot!”

Misha’s eyes widen as he tugs at the hem of his shirt, then he chuckles as he finds the hole, a hair’s breadth from his waist. “Not quite,” he says. “It’s merely an old shirt, and it has a hole or two. I’m afraid the Pickfords only merit my second-best clothes.” He reaches down and collects his jacket from atop the clean glasses. “Tonight I was lucky. No harm done.”

Evie frowns. Misha’s remark implied that he’d had unlucky nights, nights where harm was done to him. She is about to ask, when hesitant footfalls from down the hall catch both of their attention.

Stewart is stumbling back inside, encouraged by the silence.