My Heart, His Spare Part

Kianna Johnson POV:

The sight of Grant's retreating back, his unyielding focus on Dariana, sliced through me. It was a clean, brutal cut, severing the last thread of hope, of any lingering illusion. The world tilted, then snapped sharply back into focus. The alcohol, which had dulled my senses, was instantly purged by a rush of pure, unadulterated pain. I couldn't breathe. My lungs felt crushed, my chest hollow.

He had left me. He had chosen her. Without a second thought.

The man still holding my arm, the one I had momentarily forgotten, felt the shift. He took my moment of shocked paralysis as an invitation. "Hey, where'd your boyfriend go?" he sneered, pulling me closer, his grip bruising. "Looks like you're all mine now, sweetheart."

Something snapped inside me. Not the fragile, heartbroken Kianna, but a raw, furious beast. My hand shot out, grabbing an empty beer bottle from the bar. Without thinking, without hesitation, I swung it.

The bottle connected with his head, a sickening thud followed by the sharp crack of glass. It shattered, splattering his face with blood and beer. The sound, loud and sudden, silenced the chaotic bar. Every eye in the room turned to us.

The man staggered back, a hand flying to his bleeding forehead. His eyes, initially wide with shock, narrowed into a vicious glare. "You crazy bitch!" he roared, his voice thick with rage. He lunged at me, a jagged shard of the broken bottle clutched in his hand.

I closed my eyes, bracing for the impact. For the pain. For anything. A strange sense of calm settled over me. What did it matter now?

But the blow never came.

Instead, I was suddenly enveloped in a familiar, powerful embrace. The scent of woodsmoke and faint antiseptic, uniquely Grant's, filled my senses. His body, hard and unyielding, shielded me. His arm, the one already injured, took the brunt of the attack. I heard a choked gasp of pain, a sound that should have ignited concern, but only fueled the cold, bitter realization.

He had come back. But it was too late.

He held me tight, his body trembling slightly, and for a fleeting moment, I felt a desperate, fleeting comfort. But then I saw his eyes. They were not on me. They were on the man, blazing with a dangerous, murderous intent. A primal rage that had nothing to do with love, and everything to do with ownership.

"What did you do?" Grant's voice was a low growl, a predatory rumble that sent shivers down my spine. The man, still clutching the broken glass, recoiled, fear flashing in his eyes. Grant was a force of nature when truly angered, and the man knew it.

Grant turned his head slightly, his gaze finally falling on me. His eyes, usually so controlled, were wide with fear, his face pale. "Kianna? Are you hurt? Did he touch you?" His voice was a strained whisper, thick with concern.

I stared at him, a hollow, mirthless laugh bubbling up my throat. Hurt? Did he touch me? The irony was a bitter pill. He was asking if I was hurt, after he had just ripped my heart out and stomped on it.

I pushed him away, a sudden surge of strength fueled by pure rage. My body was still weak, and I stumbled, but he caught me, his hands firm on my arms.

My eyes, I knew, were cold. Dead. I looked at him, truly looked, and saw nothing but the hollow shell of a man who had betrayed me. My voice was a raw, broken whisper, heavy with disdain. "You're a good dog, Grant. A very good dog."

My gaze flickered past him, to Dariana, who now stood behind him, wide-eyed and terrified, clutching his arm. "But your loyalty," I continued, my voice gaining strength, each word a venomous dart, "it was never truly mine, was it?"