Chapter 2 #2
"Leave. Now." The guy's bravado is starting to crack.
Drogo's smile curls slow, like a knife sliding out of its sheath. I've seen that smile break bigger men than this one. It never reaches his eyes.
"Oh, I will. With pleasure. And with her."
"She's not going anywhere. We have plans." He stands now, trying to match Drogo's height. Fails. Drogo is six foot five. "She owes me—"
"She owes you nothing," Drogo cuts in, voice dropping to something dangerous.
My date's eyes flick between us. Then he lets out a sharp laugh. "Oh, I get it. You're her pet, right? The one who comes running when she calls?"
Drogo goes very still. The kind of still that makes the air feel thin.
I've seen him like this before—right before someone learned why underground fighters don't last long against him.
"Drogo..." I whisper, trying to pull him back from whatever edge he's standing on.
His hands are sudden—firm around my waist. He lifts me up from the chair like I weigh nothing, spinning me to face him. His hands span my waist, fingers pressing hard enough that I'll feel them tomorrow.
He pulls me close—not flush against him, but close enough that I have to tilt my head back to meet his eyes.
"Don't Drogo me." His voice is low, rough. A warning and a promise wrapped in one.
I'm caught between them now—Drogo's solid presence against me, my date's shocked face in front. Drogo's hands don't move from my waist. Proprietary. Protective.
"I'll wait outside," I whisper, because if I stay here one more second, I'll do something stupid.
"As you should."
He releases me, and I slip away before either of them can say another word.
· · ·
I slip out into the night before I do something stupid—like beg him to finish what he started.
The night is cold, and I'm just in a dress. I'm not sure how long this stubborn little bravado can hold out, but I already feel my ears turning red from the chill.
A group of men passes by, smoking.
"Sorry, could I borrow a cigarette?" I ask.
"Yes, love," one says, giving me a once-over like I'm a prize. Fair enough.
After four failed attempts fighting the wind to light it, they disappear into the night.
That first drag hits like heaven. I'd quit smoking a month ago because Drogo insisted, but watching those guys puff away stirred something in me—a jealous itch for a passion I wasn't supposed to have anymore.
What can I say? I'm a woman of my desires.
The second drag is always better, the nicotine sweet and slow as it fills my lungs.
The wind shifts, and for a second, I swear I hear whispering from the alley shadows. Not the men who just left. Something else. I take another drag to steady myself.
Then a hand slips in from behind, snatching the cigarette away before I can savor more.
Drogo.
Finished with his opponent, he appears like a threat wrapped in Armani—tall, dark, every step saying the room is his if he decides to take it. He takes a long, slow drag, those cold blue eyes locking on mine, and then flicks the cigarette to the ground.
He steps closer, crowding me against the car door, the heat of him cutting through the cold night.
"Bad for you," he says, voice low, like he isn't talking about the cigarette at all. His voice is low, rough, like gravel and smoke, and it slides straight between my legs.
"Get in the car, Alena."
· · ·
I slide into the passenger seat, watching him round the front of the car. The Aston Martin's interior smells like leather and him—expensive cologne mixed with something darker I can never quite name.
He settles into the driver's seat but doesn't start the engine.
I turn to face him, feeling suddenly like a teenager who just got caught doing something stupid.
"I'm sorry."
He looks at me. "For?"
"Ruining your night. You were... busy."
His mouth curves. "You didn't ruin anything."
"Drogo—"
"You make my night, babe."
The word lands different when he says it. Not entitled. Not dismissive. Like he means it.
His hand finds my thigh, warm through the thin fabric of my dress.
Just rests there. Heavy. Possessive. Then he slides it under.
Skin meets skin. Something that, through the years, has become normal for us.
He slides his hand higher on my thigh. Too high.
His finger is brushing my panties, and I immediately feel wet.
"Every time," he adds quietly.
I stare at his hand on my leg, heart hammering so loud I'm sure he can hear it. But for us, this is normal, so I act normal. I smile. But fuck, I want more. I want to tell him to go higher or just push his hand between my legs.
"You kicked her out, didn't you?" I ask. "The woman."
"The second you called."
"Rude. She won't be happy about that. And she would be right."
"Don't care." His thumb strokes once across my thigh as his fingers brush my panties more. Fuck. "You called. I came."
My breath catches. "You always do."
"Always will."
The silence stretches between us—thick with things I don't say, things I’ve never said in seventeen years.
His hand doesn't move.
Neither do I.
His fingers flex against my thigh. Once. Twice.
Seventeen years. Seventeen years of this dance.
Tonight, the line we've never crossed trembles. I don't think I can hold it anymore. I want him. Now. I want to know if he feels the same. If he wants me as I want him. If he got even a little jealous tonight.
"Drogo—"
His phone buzzes. Sharp. Insistent.
He glances at the screen.
Everything changes.
His jaw tightens. The heat in his eyes goes cold—replaced by something harder. Dangerous.
"Fuck."
He pulls his hand away, and the loss of his touch feels like cold water.
"What is it?" I ask, reaching for him.
He doesn't answer. Just stares at the screen, knuckles white around the phone.
"Drogo?"
He starts the engine, jaw set. Won't look at me.
"What's wrong?"
"Nothing." But his voice is tight. Controlled. The way it gets when he's lying.
I've known him seventeen years. I know when something's wrong.
"Drogo, talk to me—"
"Not now, Alena."
He pulls into traffic, and I watch his profile—the tension in his jaw, the way his hands grip the steering wheel like he's fighting something. A thought, maybe.
Whatever was on that screen terrified him.
And Drogo doesn't scare easily.