Chapter 12 Grant
GRANT
“Idon’t want you!”
I can’t begin to describe what those words did to me.
I thought nothing would be worse than witnessing her breakdown during the scene.
The panic she’d felt, the shame and guilt.
Hearing her apologize—to me!—for something that had been completely my fault—it had gutted me.
Holding her while she sobbed and tried to gain control of herself had broken my fucking heart.
But all of that was nothing in comparison to her telling me she didn’t want me. That she didn’t want me to follow her. That she would rather be alone than accept my comfort.
The only thing that kept me from falling to my knees was the realization of why she had freaked out so much.
I couldn’t do that with anyone but you.
I might have been a stupid idiot to allow what happened tonight to take place, but I wasn’t so dumb that I didn’t realize what was going on with her.
It took trying to have sex with another man for her to realize that she didn’t want anyone else.
That she only wanted me. And the realization had sent her into a panic.
God, I wish I could have convinced her to stay in this room.
I could have convinced her that it would be okay, that we could take it slow.
That I felt the same way about her, that I had from the very beginning.
I could have held her and promised that I’d never hurt her, that I would always take care of her.
She was afraid because of what her asshole ex-husband did to her, but I could show her that it would never be like that with me.
That she would always be safe and in control.
She just needs time, I tell myself. I know my girl and I know what panic does to her. She needs a few hours to hole up in her apartment alone and come to terms with her feelings. Then I can go to her. When she’s ready, we can have the talk we need to have.
But there’s no way in hell I’m going to let her go running out of here alone when she’s this upset.
She promised to use my driver, and I’m damn well going to make sure she follows through.
I grab my phone and type out a quick text to Andres, the club host, asking him to ensure Ms. Milton gets to my driver.
But I know I won’t be able to banish this sick worry in my gut until I see her safely in the car—with my own eyes.
She doesn’t have to see me or know that I’m following.
Fuck, at this point I’m pretty sure she’s too upset to even notice.
I find my discarded shirt and pull it on, then hurry from the room, working on the buttons as I go. I’ll just stand to the side of the lounge and watch. Make sure she goes to Andres to get my driver.
But what I find when I reach the lounge sends all thoughts of Andres and her getting home out of my head. Because there’s a man standing by the exit gripping Kensie’s arm. She staring up at him in horror, and I immediately see red.
“Mr. Anderson,” Andres says in his always-calm, always-together voice, sliding up beside me. “I haven’t seen Ms. Milton yet—”
“She’s right there,” I snap, gesturing. I’m already striding in that direction, thinking only of getting those fucking hands off her. Andres follows. “Who the hell is that guy?”
“I believe that’s a Mr. Frederick Cunningham, sir,” he says. “He came in tonight as a guest of Mr. Gordon. A business deal, I believe.”
I nearly stumble. Kensie had never given me her husband’s last name, only that she’d changed hers back to her maiden name after the divorce. The few times she mentioned Fred, I had never imagined she meant Fred Cunningham.
I know that fucker. I’ve done work with him. He’s a second-rate fund manager, nowhere near on my level, but our paths have crossed over the years. He always struck me as a spineless, social-climbing asshole.
Now that I know he’s the one who hurt Kensie? The fucker is dead.
“Get your goddamn hands off of her,” I bark, grabbing his shoulder and roughly pushing him away. “You don’t ever fucking touch her again.”
“She’s my wife,” he snarls back. “You can mind your own damn business.”
“Ex-wife.” I get up in his face. I have an inch or two on him and I’m glad for it. Looking down on this piece of shit feels damn good.
“I don’t see how it’s any of your business,” he says, but he takes a step back, intimidated. Little bitch.
I don’t let him get far. I’m right back in his face, rage coursing through me. “She’s my business, do you understand? You think I don’t know what you did to her?”
He opens his mouth, probably to spew some bullshit I don’t want to hear, but then pauses, his gaze jumping around my face.
I see it, the moment he recognizes me. He’s always been a little kiss-ass, and I can tell he’s measuring his desire to tell me off and his unwillingness to go up against such an important figure in the finance world.
Too fucking late, asshole, I think. Now that I know who he is, this guy is ruined. If it’s the last thing I do, I’m going to make sure he’s left with nothing.
He never hurt me, not really. Left bruises a few times.
That’s what she told me about her pathetic excuse of an ex. As if leaving a bruise on a woman in anger is ever justified. Not to mention the years of emotional, financial, and mental abuse. I think of her falling apart in my arms when he sent her those fucking flowers.
He’s a dead man.
“I think this is all a misunderstanding,” he says, holding up his hands. “I don’t know what she told you, but Kensie has always been a bit of an exaggerator.” He actually chuckles. “You know how emotional women can be.”
I don’t think twice before throwing the punch. My fist connects with the side of his face with enough force to send him stumbling into a table behind him. Not good enough—I want to knock his ass to the floor.
“Grant!” Kensie cries behind me. I feel her soft hand on my arm. “You don’t have to do this!”
“Like hell I don’t,” I growl, managing to soften my hands enough to gently push her off. I make eye contact with Andres over her head and he nods, moving forward to place himself between her body and what’s about to go down.
I grab Fred by the collar, pulling him up. His face is red, eyes narrowed. “What’s the matter?” I growl. “I thought bullying was your thing?”
“You have no idea what you’re talking about!”
“I know a judge gave her a restraining order. I know her lawyer hired a P.I. who dug up enough shit about you that you had to give her a hell of a divorce settlement.” I tighten my grip, bringing his face closer.
“I know you fucking treated her like dirt for years. And I know you left bruises on her skin and locked her in a damn bathroom for two fucking days!”
I dart a glance to the group of guys standing just behind him, looking shocked.
I recognize one from the club, probably a member who brought business associates in to show off for the night.
I notice not one of them has come to his defense.
“Those guys over there know everything you did to your wife?”
“I didn’t do shit to that little bitch,” he snarls, temper breaking. “I gave her everything! She was ungrateful! A fucking frigid cunt. And now she’s here, whoring herself out to you?”
This time my punch lands square on his nose. He immediately starts gushing blood as he struggles against my hold.
“You fucking broke my nose!”
“I’m gonna break a hell of a lot more than that, you piece of shit.”
“Grant.” This time it isn’t Kensie’s soft voice drawing my attention away from the slime ball in my hands. It’s Anthony. He’s standing next to me, a firm hand on my shoulder. “He’s not worth it, man.”
“He deserves this,” I grunt, unable to release him. I want to punch him over and over again. Kensie is owed far more blood than this for what he put her through.
“He deserves a lot more than this,” Anthony says, voice dripping with disgust. “But he doesn’t need to get it tonight. Not here.”
I take a deep breath, knowing he’s right. Beating the shit out of this guy might feel good in the moment, but he deserves repercussions that are much more long lasting. The kind of thing I most definitely have the power to bring about.
I release his collar, shoving him for good measure so he lands on his ass. None of his associates help him up.
I turn to the Wyld member I recognize. “I would advise you stop doing business with this fucker immediately.”
The guy nods, face grim. There’s no tolerance for abusive assholes in a club like this. A Dom’s entire purpose is to care for his submissive. Even when there’s punishment and impact play, she holds all the power. And there’s always, always consent.
I look back at the scum still sprawled on the floor. He’s got a hand to his nose, as if trying to stop the bleeding. I’m pleased to see it’s dripped onto his department store shirt. Cheap asshole.
“You’re done,” I tell him. “You’re fucking done. In finance, in life. I’m going to ruin you.” I lean down and get in his face. “You know who I am—tell me you think I can’t do it.”
He just stares up at me, face red with impotent rage. He knows I have the resources and the connections to end his career. And a whole lot more than that.
“You never contact her again,” I spit, standing. “I hear about another threatening letter or cruel little gift, and I come after you. And this time there won’t be anyone to stop me from rearranging your face.”
His expression is that of a man who wants to lash out, to hurt me. I wonder how many times he wore that same expression around her? The thought makes me want to start punching all over again.
“I don’t understand why you give a fuck,” he snarls. “What is she to you?”
I stand to my full height, looking down at his pathetic form. “She’s fucking everything to me,” I tell him. “But there’s only one thing you need to remember. She’s mine. And no one fucks with what’s mine.”