Chapter 8 Mihalis #3
"Gentlemen," I acknowledge, rising to clasp hands with each of them. "Heidi, meet Darius and Evander Stellan. They keep Vestige stocked with the finest amerinth money can buy."
The brothers offer polite greetings, but their attention keeps drifting back to her with the kind of speculation that sets my teeth on edge. Not lustful—they're too professional for that—but interested in a way that suggests they're trying to place her significance in my life.
As we settle into discussion of shipping schedules and pricing adjustments, I become increasingly aware of how the evening's dynamics are affecting me.
Every time someone looks at Heidi with interest, possessive heat flares through my chest. When she shifts in her chair, drawing attention to the elegant line of her legs beneath emerald silk, my hands clench involuntarily.
The bond is making everything more intense, but this feels like something deeper than magical compulsion. This feels personal.
Midway through our discussion of transport security, Heidi excuses herself to visit the powder room. I watch her navigate the VIP area with fluid grace, noting how she instinctively chooses a path that keeps her back to walls and exits within sight.
"Beautiful woman," Darius comments once she's out of earshot.
"Indeed," Evander agrees. "Quite striking. How long have you had her?"
The casual assumption that I own her should prompt immediate correction. Instead, I hear myself saying, "That's not your concern."
Both brothers raise eyebrows at my sharp tone, but they're smart enough not to press. We return to business discussions, though I find my attention split between contract negotiations and tracking Heidi's progress across the lounge.
She's been gone too long. The powder room visit should have taken five minutes, ten at most. It's been fifteen, and the bond's pressure is building toward actual discomfort.
"Excuse me," I interrupt whatever Evander is saying about customs delays. "I'll be right back."
I rise from the table with enough controlled urgency that both brothers immediately understand something's wrong, though they're too professional to comment. The VIP lounge suddenly feels too large, too full of potential hiding places and exits I can't monitor simultaneously.
I find her near the balcony overlooking the main floor, standing at the railing with wine glass in hand. She's not alone—a young xaphan with storm-gray wings is positioned closer than any stranger should be, his hand resting on the railing mere inches from hers.
The possessive fury that tears through me is immediate and overwhelming.
"...absolutely fascinating," he's saying as I approach. "Why don't you come downstairs with me? I think we could find more interesting things to get up to."
"I don't think that's possible," Heidi replies politely, but she doesn't step away from him.
"Anything's possible with the right incentive," he persists, moving fractionally closer. "A woman like you shouldn't be wasted on—"
"On what?" I ask pleasantly, appearing at Heidi's other side like a shadow given substance.
The young xaphan startles, clearly not having sensed my approach. When he turns to face me, recognition dawns in his eyes—followed immediately by the pale realization that he's been propositioning someone under my protection.
"Vorath," he stammers. "I didn't realize—that is, I wasn't aware—"
"Weren't aware of what?" My voice remains conversational, but something in my tone makes him take an automatic step backward.
"I should go," he says quickly. "Enjoy your evening."
He disappears into the crowd with the speed of someone who understands exactly how close he came to making a potentially fatal mistake. I watch him go, satisfied by his retreat but still burning with the urge to follow through on the violence his presumption deserved.
"That was unnecessary," Heidi says quietly.
"Was it?" I turn to face her fully, noting the flush in her cheeks that could be from wine or something else entirely. "He was propositioning you."
"I can handle unwanted attention without your intervention."
"Not here. Not in my club." The words are harsh, edged with possessive heat that I'm no longer trying to hide. "Here, you're under my protection. That means something."
She studies my face with those storm-colored eyes, searching for something I'm not sure she finds. "And what exactly does being under your protection entail?"
The question hangs between us, loaded with implications neither of us is quite ready to acknowledge.
The honest answer is that I don't know—this situation is unprecedented, and I'm making up rules as I go along.
But the bond is singing with satisfaction at having her close again, and the primitive part of my brain is purring with approval at having demonstrated my claim on her to potential rivals.
"It means," I say carefully, "that anyone who wants access to you goes through me first."
Something flickers across her expression—surprise, maybe, or something that looks dangerously like approval. She doesn't immediately object to the possessive undertone in my words, which is interesting considering how fiercely she's guarded her independence since the moment I met her.
"I should get back to my meeting," I add, though the words feel like admitting defeat.
"Of course." She falls into step beside me as we return to the table, close enough that our arms brush with every few steps.
The contact shouldn't affect me as strongly as it does. A week of careful coexistence should have built up some immunity to her proximity. Instead, every casual touch sends heat racing through my veins, every shared glance feels weighted with possibility.
When we reach the table, I don't guide her to the chair across from me. Instead, I pull out the seat directly beside mine—close enough that our knees will touch, close enough that I can catch the subtle scent of her perfume.
She slides into the chair without comment, but I catch the small smile that tugs at the corner of her mouth.
The rest of the meeting passes in a haze of professional discussion punctuated by acute awareness of her presence. Every time she shifts position, every time she reaches for her wine glass, every time she leans slightly closer to follow the conversation—all of it registers with heightened clarity.
By the time the Stellan brothers take their leave, promising prompt delivery of our next shipment, the bond's pressure has faded to barely noticeable background sensation.
Having her this close creates a buffer that makes everything easier, though it comes with the complication of wanting to touch her constantly.
"Interesting evening," she comments once we're alone again.
"Business usually is, when it's done properly."
"I meant the possessive display earlier." Her directness catches me off guard. "Should I expect more of that?"
The question forces me to examine motivations I'd rather leave unanalyzed. The truth is that yes, she should probably expect more of it. The bond is making territorial impulses stronger, and watching other males show interest in her brings out predatory instincts I'm not entirely in control of.
"Would that bother you?" I ask instead of answering directly.
She considers this seriously, swirling wine in her glass while she thinks. When she finally meets my gaze, there's something in her expression that makes my pulse quicken.
"No," she says quietly. "I don't think it would."
The admission hangs between us like a challenge, loaded with implications that neither of us is quite ready to pursue. But something has shifted in the space of this evening—some barrier has been crossed that we can't uncross.