Chapter 7 Cassandra #2
I ignore it, marching toward the office door at the rear of the shop. My heels strike the concrete floor with angry purpose. I need to look him in the eye. I need him to deny it. I need him to tell me that the way he held me this morning wasn't just a tactical maneuver.
I reach for the handle of the office door, but voices from inside stop me cold.
"It's risky, Chase." That’s Logan. The President. His voice is deep, authoritative.
"It's handled," Chase’s voice answers. The sound of it sends a phantom caress down my spine, but the words turn my blood to ice. "I’ve marked her, Logan. She’s mine.
I broke her wide open in that cabin until she was screaming my name and begging for more.
She isn't a threat anymore; she's an asset. I have her so drenched for me she’ll sign whatever I put in front of her. "
"You sure about that? One night doesn't guarantee loyalty."
There’s a pause. I can picture Chase leaning back in that creaky leather chair, that cocky, predatory smirk on his face.
"She’s mine, Logan," Chase says, and this time, the possessiveness doesn't sound romantic. It sounds like ownership. Like he’s talking about a piece of territory he’s conquered.
"I broke down her defenses. She’s not going to fight me.
She’s going to help us get that building up.
Trust me. I know which buttons to push."
I stumble back, my hand flying to my mouth to stifle a gasp.
I know which buttons to push.
It’s true. Every word Oswald said was true.
The possessiveness, the intensity, the rush—it was all a game.
A mission. I was the target, and he hit the bullseye.
I feel like I’m going to throw up. I gave him everything.
I let him see parts of me I’ve kept hidden for years—my need for control, my secret desire to lose it.
And he used it against me to get a zoning permit for a motorcycle club.
Rage scorches the back of my throat, obliterating the nausea. I am not a victim. I am Cassandra Preston, and I have torn corporations apart with less ammunition than this. I don't storm in. A scorned lover would scream. I need to be the lawyer. I need to be cold, hard, and untouchable.
I smooth my blazer. I tighten the scarf until it feels like a noose. I compose my face into a mask of professional indifference. Then, I open the door.
Both men look up instantly. Logan leans against a filing cabinet, his massive arms crossed over a chest that looks like a barrel. Chase sits behind the desk, looking devastatingly handsome in a black t-shirt that strains against his biceps.
When he sees me, his face transforms. The arrogant mask drops, replaced by a look of genuine, blinding warmth. "Counselor."
He starts to rise, moving toward me with that predatory grace, reaching out as if to pull me into him. "I was just about to call you. I missed—"
"Don't," I say.
The word is quiet, but it cracks like a whip. Chase stops, his hand hovering in mid-air. He frowns, his eyes narrowing as he scans my face, reading the tension in my jaw, the ice in my eyes.
"What's wrong?" he asks, his voice dropping an octave. "Did someone touch you?"
"Sit down, Mr. Gunnar," I say, using his surname like a shield.
Chase flinches. He looks at Logan, then back at me. "Cassandra, what the hell is this?"
"This is me, recusing myself from the conflict of interest," I say, walking into the room and placing my leather portfolio on the desk between us.
I don't look at him. I focus on the wall behind him.
"I received new information regarding the timeline of your Search and Rescue proposal.
It appears the project was conceived after my arrival, specifically as a counter-measure to my injunction. "
Chase’s jaw tightens. "Cassandra, listen to me—"
"It's a brilliant legal strategy," I continue, cutting him off, my voice trembling slightly before I clamp down on it. "Create a sympathetic humanitarian front. Seduce the opposing counsel to ensure she doesn't dig too deep into the financials or the rushed blueprints. Neutralize the threat."
I finally look at him. His eyes are olive green, tumultuous, confused. Or maybe that’s just more acting.
"I heard you," I whisper, the mask slipping for a fraction of a second. "Just now. Through the door. You have me exactly where you want me? You know which buttons to push?"
Chase pales. He steps around the desk, ignoring my flinch. "You heard that out of context. I meant—"
"I know what 'handled' means in your world, Chase," I snap, stepping back to keep distance between us. If he touches me, I’ll shatter. "It means you did your job. Congratulations. You're very good at it. You made me believe it. You made me believe you."
"None of this was a game," Chase growls, his temper flaring, the air in the room suddenly charged with violence.
He stalks toward me, crowding my space, radiating heat and fury.
"I never lied about wanting to bury myself in you until we both stopped breathing.
I never faked the way my cock throbbed the second you walked into the room, or the way you soaked my hand when I touched you.
You didn't just feel a 'touch,' Cassandra—you felt a claim. One that isn't going away."
"Was it?" I laugh, a harsh, brittle sound. "Or was it just the Enforcer securing the asset?"
"Stop calling me that," he snarls, grabbing my upper arms. His grip is tight, possessive, desperate.
"I never planned for us to happen. Yeah, the rescue center idea came up fast, but it’s legit.
And yeah, I told Logan I had you handled because I needed him off my back so I could be with you.
I was protecting you from club politics, Cassandra. "
"By lying to me?" I shake him off, stepping back. "By manipulating me?"
"I never lied about how I want you," he says, his voice rough, pleading. "I never faked a single touch. You felt it. You felt me."
"You engineered every sensation," I say, my voice dead. "And I'm done playing my part."
I reach into my portfolio and pull out a document I prepared in the hotel room, just in case. I toss it onto the desk.
"This is a formal notice. I am stepping back from the negotiations. My firm will send a junior associate to handle the final hearings. I'm recommending the council review the permit with extreme scrutiny regarding the timeline of the application."
Logan pushes off the filing cabinet, his face dark. "You're declaring war, lady."
"No," I say, looking straight at Chase, watching the heartbreak fracture his beautiful, deceitful face. "I'm just doing my job. Like you did yours."
"Don't walk out that door," Chase says, and for the first time, he sounds predatory and inevitable. "Because the second you cross that threshold, the hunt begins. I’ve had my seed inside you, Counselor. I’ve marked your skin. You can run to the city, but you’re carrying the brand of a Gunnar, and I’m coming to take back what belongs to me. "
"If you come near me," I say, my voice shaking, tears finally threatening to spill, "I will file a harassment suit that will bury this club in litigation for the next decade. Stay away from me, Chase."
I turn on my heel and walk out.
It takes everything I have not to run. I feel the heavy, magnetic pull of him behind me, a physical tether trying to snap me back into his orbit.
I expect him to grab me, to haul me back against the wall and kiss the doubt out of me until I’m mindless and pliable again.
Part of me—the weak, traitorous part—hopes he will.
But he doesn't.
I burst out onto Main Street, into the blinding afternoon sun. I gasp for air, my lungs burning, my heart shattered in my chest. I won. I kept my professional integrity. I didn't let the bad boy win.
So why does it feel like I just lost everything?
I start walking toward the hotel, my vision blurred.
I need to pack. I need to leave Pine Valley before the sun sets.
Because if I spend one more night in this mountain air, smelling the pine and the leather scent clinging to my skin, I know I’ll go back.
And next time, I won't have the strength to leave.
Behind me, in the window of the Outfitters, I see a shadow watching me go. Dark, imposing, and still. The Enforcer is watching. And I know, with a terrifying certainty, that this isn't over. He doesn't lose. And he definitely doesn't let things that are "his" just walk away.