At the sight of Clara on the floor, something in Jonathan broke open. The calm man became a blade. Without a word, he stepped forward and delivered a clean, brutal kick to Adrian’s stomach. Adrian doubled over with a strangled grunt, stumbling back.
“Adrian, you’re courting death,” Jonathan said, voice low and cold. He bent, gathered Clara in one careful motion, and planted himself between her and the wound Adrian had become.
Adrian clutched at his midriff, face flushing. When he saw Jonathan standing there—restrained fury in every line of him—his expression tumbled from pain into ugly, furious mockery. “Jonathan? Ha. So you’ve come to pick up the scraps. Clara, throwing yourself at your ex so fast? Jonathan, you belong to menial things—like picking up my old shoes.”
The words were bait. Jonathan’s eyes narrowed to slits. He stepped forward and, with a single, controlled motion, grabbed Adrian’s collar and drove a fist into his face. Blood split at Adrian’s lip; he staggered, dazed and defeated under the onslaught.