They were almost evenly matched in size, but to judge by the lethal expression in his eyes, Mick was soundly winning in motivation. The other man managed to break free, swung out with a punch that Mick blocked and returned with interest. Glasses and bottles were shattered all over the surface, liquor spilling to the floor. Sophy stared through dazed eyes at Mick, who had both hands bunched in her assailant’s shirt, up by his throat, and was hauling him almost off his feet, pressing him up against the oak bar. Voices were either calling for the police to be summoned or joining in with a stupid “Fight, fight, fight!” chant.

The sound of shouts and whooping seemed to get louder all of a sudden and as her stunned brain began to chug into gear, she realised that the music had been turned off and all attention was focused on the two bodies struggling against the counter.

She skittered back on her heels and her surroundings dipped and swayed for a dizzy moment, exacerbated by a sudden pulse of the detested strobe lighting. It seemed, unbelievably, that he was going to be able to remove her from the room without anyone batting an eyelash, when there was a blur of motion and she was wrenched violently free of his hold. Then adrenalin flooded her body in a rush of jittery strength and she yanked back against his hold, possibly made some sort of shrieking noise that was swallowed up by the thumping percussion. It was so shocking that for a couple of minutes, she stayed frozen, passive, in his grip.

Artistic license by elle pierson