Chapter 13 #2
“As I told you, I’m not interested in you like that.”
Cyan hums low in his throat. “The kiss we shared tells me differently.”
My pulse spikes. This is insane; I grip the edge of the table to steady myself. “I had too much to drink,” I snap. “I would’ve kissed anybody.” His hand tightens around mine.
Before I can unravel further, the waitress arrives with our food. He releases me, and I drag in a shaky breath. Once she’s gone, Cyan doesn’t even blink. “You’re pissed, so I’ll let that go. Now eat.”
The command grates. I want to shove the bowl away purely out of spite.
I’m not hungry at least that’s what I keep telling myself.
But all I’ve had today is a cup of coffee, and the smell of the chowder is warm and buttery and comforting in a way I desperately need.
So, I tear off a piece of the crusty bread.
I dip it into the chowder and take a bite.
The flavor explodes; the savory stew is so good, and a soft, helpless moan slips out of me before I can stop it.
Cyan hears it; his knuckles go white around his coffee mug as his eyes darken, burning with raw, unfiltered hunger. His shoulders tense, every muscle coiling like he’s holding himself together by a thread.
I’ve seen this look before. The night he kissed me.
The night I… kind of kissed him back. My gaze snags on his mouth, and I squirm in my seat.
What is this, some kind of complete and utter lunacy?
I shake my head, take a steadying breath.
Cyan exudes sin like a second skin; any red-blooded woman would react.
It’s just biological and hormonal, nothing else.
I force my attention back to the chowder, determined not to give him another reaction. I will outlast his obsession. He’ll get bored. This is temporary, and yet even after the last spoonful, my pulse is still thrumming. I drop my spoon into the empty bowl and straighten my spine.
He leans in, breath warm against my ear. His voice is pure silk. “I love hearing my name from your smart mouth. Even more now that everyone knows you belong to me, your hating me doesn’t change a damn thing. I still want that smart mouth wrapped around my cock while you wear those glasses.”
The image hits, too vivid, too filthy. Me on my knees, mouth full. Him gripping a handful of my hair as his hips snap forward, heat floods low and deep, unwanted and dangerous.
The bastard grins, bringing me back to reality.
His thumb traces the edge of my jaw. “Hmm… You’re picturing it, aren’t you?
” I flick his hand away from my face. “I love your fight, Dove.” He licks the shell of my ear; a shiver bolts through me.
I clench my fists. I will not let my body drag me to ruin.
People pretend not to stare, but I hear the whispers.
My cheeks burn. I dislike him even more.
My fury spikes. I lift my chin, voice cold. “No, Cyan. I will not be doing that with you. You might think you own me, but I will never give you that willingly.”
His expression doesn’t shift. It doesn’t crack; he pulls back, grin deepening. “That’s where you’re wrong, Aria. You’ll find your way to me voluntarily.”
“You’re delusional.”
“Come with me. It’s time to leave.”
“What? No. I have to go back to work. I’ll lose my job.”
“You won’t be fired.” He pulls out his phone, scrolling calmly.
Then watches me as he lifts it to his ear.
“Hey, James, this is Cyan MacBrady. One of your junior accountants at the Crescent Bay location… Aria Concetta Boschett… is taking an extra-long lunch with me.” He hangs up before the man can respond.
I stare at him. At the sheer audacity, at the reach he has.
“You—” I start, but then I see it… The tent in his pants. My eyes widen as the bastard adjusts himself under the table. Has he been hard this entire lunch?
Heat rushes through me. Desire, but it’s more something wickedly satisfying.
“Oh my,” I breathe, then laugh, low and taunting.
“You’ve been hard this whole time. Poor mobster…
” I tilt my head. “Too bad your obsession isn’t reciprocated.
” His jaw flexes. He says nothing. He just stands and pulls me up with him.
Cyan tugs me toward the exit. I should fight.
I should claw and scream and let the whole diner watch me take the mobster down a peg.
But I don’t. Maybe it’s because I know what he’s capable of.
Ethan was proof of that. Maybe it’s the adrenaline.
Or maybe it’s a crack in my sanity. Because as he guides me, my feet move willingly.
My heart hammers, for all the wrong reasons.
The truth hits me: I’m curious. About the power I have over him.
I saw it in the way he shifted under the table, hard and hungry, completely undone by my nearness.
Some cracked, reckless part of me wants to know what happens next.
Wants to understand why this unyielding, brutal man looks at me like I’m salvation and ruin all at once.
So, I let him lead me not because he owns me, but because knowing I can unravel him might be the weapon I’ve been searching for.
We’re almost at the door when—click, click, click—heels.
My eyes travel up to her. She walks in like she owns the building.
A woman sculpted from money and ambition.
Her dress doesn’t belong anywhere near clam chowder.
It belongs on a rooftop bar or in the boardroom of a Fortune 500 company.
She flips her buttermilk-blonde hair over one shoulder, gaze sweeping the room sharply, assessing.
Then her eyes land on Cyan. Recognition.
A slow, sultry smile curves her lips. “Baby,” she purrs. “There you are.” She saunters right up to him. “I thought I’d have to track you down.”
Someone whispers behind me, “Who is that?” A hush falls over the diner.
The crowd senses a storm brewing, and I’m standing dead center in it.
Heat rises to my cheeks. Humiliation, and something else I refuse to name.
I should be grateful this woman showed up, cutting off the dangerous curiosity twisting inside me moments ago. So why do I feel like a fucking fool?
I know what Cyan is. A ruthless, controlling bastard. Yet my stomach twists, my fingers curling into fists. This is good. This is my way out. His obsession will fade now; let her be the distraction. I yank my hand from his. He lets me. Good, now go to her and leave me be. I take a step back.
“Elana,” Cyan says, voice colder than ice.
“What brings you to Crescent Bay? And don’t feckin’ call me ‘baby.’ We’ve never rolled in those waters together.
” His accent is thicker; harsher. A slow chill crawls up my spine.
The last time his brogue sounded this sharp was the night in Hayden’s living room.
The first time he had threatened me. So, his accent thickens when he’s pissed.
Elana is too arrogant to notice… or she doesn’t care. She leans in, lips painted and perfect, smiling like she owns him. “But ba–” She stops herself.
Her voice dips, teasing and sultry. Her nails trail down his arm. “Cyan, we had so much fun these past few months, didn’t we?”
There is a burning in my chest. It’s humiliation.
That’s all it is, surely. I need to leave now.
But Cyan and Elana are blocking the way.
Dammit! There has to be another exit. I try to step around them, and that’s when his hand snaps around my wrist, so fast I gasp.
I jerk back, trying to pull free, but this time, he doesn’t let go. His grip is iron.
He shoves her back away from him. “That was a long time ago, Elana, and you know it.” The accent is still there heavy and jagged.
For the first time, Elana pauses. Her smile falters: a woman like her is not used to being dismissed.
Her gaze cuts to me. Appraising. Her cold, dark eyes sweep over me like she’s cataloging my flaws as if she’s trying to figure out what cheap mistake Cyan dragged in off the street.
Her expression curdles into something ugly. Something meant to belittle.
A hot flush creeps up my throat. He put me here. In the center of his drama, and now I’m standing here, humiliated, furious… and trapped. I pull at my wrist again. He doesn’t let go.
“Oh, Cyan,” she says airily, “remember that time we–”
“We were nothing but a fuck, Elana.” The words slice through the diner like a blade. She goes still. Her lips part. Shock flickers across her perfect face, but Cyan isn’t done. He turns to me, his grip tightening, pulling me closer, advertising his claim.
“I’m with Aria now, and trust me, lass… there’s no looking back. It’s forward from here.”
Then he draws me with him right past Elana’s frozen, furious form. Past the whispers and the stares. Pulling me straight into whatever lesson he plans to teach next.