Chapter 22
Gideon
The restaurant sat right on the water—glass walls overlooking the lake, exposed beams crossing a vaulted ceiling, tables scattered across polished concrete floors.
Minimalist. Expensive. The kind of place that catered to people who had money and wanted everyone to know it without screaming the fact.
I'd been here before. Team dinners. Sponsor events. The usual obligations that came with wearing the crest.
But I'd never brought anyone.
The hostess looked up the moment we walked through the door, and her entire face transformed—eyes widening, posture straightening, smile blooming bright and eager.
NHL star.
Local celebrity.
Walking danger wrapped in a hoodie and dark joggers.
She knew exactly who I was.
"Mr. Jones," she breathed, already reaching for menus. "We're so honored—"
I didn't look at her.
Not once.
My hand settled at Belle's back, firm and possessive, fingers splayed across the curve of her spine as I kept her moving forward. I felt her stiffen beneath my palm, felt the instinctive resistance ripple through her body, but she didn't pull away.
The hostess gestured toward a table near the windows—two chairs positioned across from each other with careful, calculated distance between them. Polite seating. Strangers sharing a meal.
Absolutely not.
I shook my head once. "Booth."
She blinked, thrown off-balance, then scrambled to recover. "Of course! Right this way—"
She led us to a corner booth tucked against the far wall, half-moon seating upholstered in dark leather that curved around a table built for intimacy rather than conversation. Belle moved to slide into the booth across from me—putting the table between us like a barrier, like safety.
I caught her wrist.
Her pulse jumped beneath my fingers.
"Next to me."
Her eyes flashed, defiance sparking hot and immediate. "No."
I raised one eyebrow, waiting.
She recognized the look. Knew what it meant when I went quiet instead of loud, when I stopped commanding and started simply expecting obedience.
Her jaw clenched hard enough I heard her teeth grind together, but she slid into the booth beside me anyway, leaving a careful few inches of space between our bodies.
I didn't allow it.
My arm draped across the back of the booth, casual and claiming, and I hooked one fingertip into the belt loop at her waist—subtle pressure that pulled her closer until her thigh pressed against mine and her shoulder fit perfectly beneath my arm.
She stiffened.
Beautifully.
I smirked.
The hostess hovered, flustered and pink-cheeked, clutching menus against her chest like a shield. "Your server will be right with you. Can I get you anything while you wait?"
"Water," I said without looking at her. "For both of us."
She scurried away.
Belle turned her head just enough to glare at me, trapped between my body and the wall with nowhere to run. "I can order my own water."
"I know."
"Then why—"
"Because I wanted to."
The server arrived with two glasses of water, setting them down with careful precision before straightening and fixing her attention squarely on me. Young. Blonde. Pretty in the way servers at expensive restaurants always were—polished, poised, smiling with teeth.
"Welcome," she purred, letting her gaze linger just a fraction too long. "I'm Sarah. I'll be taking care of you today."
Belle shifted beside me, her thigh pressing harder against mine.
I noticed.
Sarah leaned forward slightly, pen poised over her notepad, angling her body so her neckline dipped lower. "Can I start you off with any appetizers? Maybe something from the bar?"
"No," I said flatly.
Her smile wavered but held. "All right, well, take your time looking over the menu and—"
"We're ready to order."
Sarah blinked, thrown off-balance, then recovered with practiced ease. "Oh! Wonderful. What can I get for you?"
I didn't open the menu.
"She'll have the roasted chicken with herb butter, extra mashed potatoes, no green beans. Side of the sourdough rolls with honey butter."
Belle went rigid beside me.
I kept talking. "I'll take the steak. Rare. Fries instead of vegetables."
Sarah scribbled quickly, flashing another bright smile. "Perfect! And can I just say—I'm a huge fan. My brother's obsessed with the Inferno."
"Great."
Her smile faltered again, uncertainty creeping into her expression when I didn't elaborate, didn't flirt back, didn't give her anything to work with.
She shifted her weight. "Well, if you need anything at all—anything—just let me know."
The emphasis hung in the air, obvious and eager.
I stared at her until she flushed and backed away, retreating toward the kitchen with a murmured promise to bring our food out soon.
Belle waited exactly three seconds after Sarah disappeared before leaning in, voice low and clipped, vibrating with fury. "Stop assuming you know me."
I didn't look at her when I answered. "I don't assume. I remember."
Her breath caught—sharp and audible.
Because the dishes I'd listed weren't random selections.
They were hers. The exact comfort meal she ordered on bad days at the bookstore when exhaustion crawled up her spine and stress sat heavy in her chest. The meal she'd ordered twice when I'd watched her through the windows before the contract existed, before I'd claimed her, back when I was still learning the shape of her routines.
I remembered everything about her.
Every detail.
Every preference.
Every small, fragile piece she thought nobody noticed.
She turned her head away sharply, staring out the window at the lake beyond, jaw tight and shoulders stiff.
But I saw it anyway.
The flicker of warmth she couldn't quite suppress.
The softening she hated herself for feeling.
Good.
I turned slightly, studying her profile—the tight line of her jaw, the stubborn tilt of her chin, the way she refused to meet my eyes even though she knew I was watching.
My thumb found the hem of her shirt, brushing idle circles against the fabric where it met the waistband of her jeans. Not sliding beneath. Just touching. Claiming the space.
"Your father," I said quietly. "When was the last time you spoke?"
Her spine went rigid beneath my arm. "A few days ago."
I waited.
She knew I wanted more.
"And?"
Her lips pressed together, a thin line of resistance, but the words came anyway—reluctant and edged with something fragile. "He was tired. And vague. And pretending everything was fine."
I hummed low in my throat, the sound dark and thoughtful, rolling through the narrow space between us. "He's lying to protect you."
Belle turned her head sharply, eyes blazing. "How would you know?"
I held her gaze, let the silence stretch until it pulled tight, until the answer became obvious without me speaking it aloud.
"Because you lie to protect the people you love."
She froze.
The truth landed exactly where I'd aimed it—buried itself deep in that soft, vulnerable place she kept hidden beneath all the defiance and rage.
She opened her mouth. Closed it. Looked away again, throat working with words she wouldn't let herself say.
Before she could recover, she muttered—quiet but cutting—"You treat me like a prisoner. I barely know anything outside your rules."
My jaw ticked.
Heat flared beneath my ribs, sharp and ugly, because she wasn't entirely wrong and I hated that she could see it.
"You have more freedom than you think."
She laughed.
Sharp.
Bitter.
Disbelieving.
"Oh, really? What part of this—" She gestured sharply between us, to my arm behind her shoulders, to the booth trapping her against the wall, to my body caging hers in. "—screams freedom to you?"
I leaned in close, letting my lips brush the shell of her ear, feeling her breath stutter against my jaw.
"The part where you're here," I murmured, voice dropping low and dangerous. "With me. Instead of fighting to run."
Her cheeks flushed—hot and instant, color blooming across her skin in a rush she couldn't hide.
She hated it. Hated that I was right. Hated that she'd stopped fighting somewhere along the way without realizing when it happened.
Her body went still beneath my touch, but she didn't pull away. Didn't argue. Didn't deny it. Because the truth sat heavy between us now, undeniable and damning.
She was here. Not because I'd forced her this time. But because some part of her—buried deep beneath the anger and shame—wanted to be.
I leaned closer, letting my mouth brush the curve of her ear, my voice dropping to that tone I knew made her spine go rigid and her breath hitch despite every defense she tried to raise.
"By the way."
She turned her head slightly, wary but listening.
"Unbutton your jeans," I murmured. "Slide them down."
Belle straightened so fast the leather booth creaked beneath her. "What?!"
I didn't repeat myself. The command hung between us, sharp and unmistakable.
Her eyes went wide—shock bleeding into outrage bleeding into something darker she refused to name.
"Your punishment," I said evenly, "for disobeying me."
"With what?" Her voice climbed higher, frantic and furious, hands gripping the edge of the table hard enough her knuckles went white. "For not showing up to your game? I already—"
"For covering up my mark."
The words landed cold and certain.
Her throat worked, color flooding her cheeks in a hot rush as understanding clicked into place. The bruise. The one I'd left on her throat. The one she'd hidden beneath makeup and scarves like it was something shameful instead of exactly what it was—mine.
"I'm not going to—"
I leaned in until my mouth hovered against her jaw, until she felt every word vibrate through her skin. "Either do that," I growled, letting the threat curl dark and unmistakable, "or I'll fuck you against this table with everyone watching."
Her breath stopped.
"You know I will."
She did.
That was the worst part.
She knew exactly how far I'd go, knew I didn't make threats I wouldn't follow through on, knew every line she'd watched me cross already.