Chapter 22
Chapter Twenty-Two
The breeze bit at Bea’s cheeks as she stepped out of the car, tugging her coat tighter around her.
They stood at the back entrance to a tall, unmarked tower of mirrored glass and steel stretching up into the dark.
Gage held the door, guiding her inside. The lobby was elegant, dark paneling offset by muted gold accents under soft lighting. An attendant nodded at them.
“Table’s near the top. You’ll like it,” Gage said, as they stepped into the elevator.
Bea raised an eyebrow, but her smile crept through. “You seem sure of that.”
“You can correct me if I’m wrong.”
The elevator doors opened, and they stepped forward.
It was a skywalk—the glass bridge suspended between Northgate’s twin buildings, De Dubbel. She’d heard about it but hadn’t visited yet. It looked different at night, and unrecognizable from the direction they’d entered.
The functional walkway had been transformed into a lounge/bar.
Glass walls framed the city lights, glittering like a million scattered diamonds stretching to the horizon.
Above, the retractable roof had been pulled back, revealing a canopy of stars.
A row of firepits blazed in the center, the faint scent of juniper threading through the air.
Potted plants were placed with deliberate care, artfully sectioning off each seating area, creating private alcoves.
It was as though someone had decided to build an oasis in midair just because they could.
Bea exhaled. “Fine. I’ll give you this one.”
He didn’t smile. But she felt it anyway.
A waiter ushered them toward a table by the glass. She shrugged off her coat, laid it over the two-seat lounge. Gage sat beside her, close enough their shoulders touched as he leaned back. Her pulse kicked at his closeness.
Within minutes, a waitress arrived carrying plates of grilled seafood and roasted vegetables. Of course Gage had taken care of ordering in advance.
“This place is beautiful,” Bea said, as he filled her plate with prawn and squid. “And…weirdly empty.”
“That’s why I like it.”
“To avoid people?”
“To avoid interruptions.”
His hand found her knee beneath the table.
The touch surprised her, and the weight of his hand so close to anywhere that mattered became the singular focus of her body.
Warmth arrowed straight through her, pooling low and heavy until she had to clench her thighs to keep still.
She didn’t dare look up or meet his eyes.
He had felt that movement. Had to know he was the cause of it.
It was easier to pretend her knee wasn’t currently hosting a very polite meltdown. “I didn’t know this place existed.”
He had the grace to take her cue.
“It’s not public. It only happens some weekends,” Gage replied. “And you need to know the owner to get a table.”
“You know the owner?”
He tipped his drink as if to say, naturally.
“What does it take to get a table?”
“A rare bottle of whisky and a promise you won’t cause a scene.”
That puzzled her. Scene-making seemed more Rafael’s speed than Gage’s. “Why would he need a promise like that from you?”
Gage’s mouth tilted up a fraction. “Maybe he’s hoping I break it.”
She had just finished laughing when a pair of voices across the room caught her attention. Two women at the bar, their heads tilted together, whispering, looking in their direction. Bea drew herself upright, suddenly self-conscious.
“Don’t,” Gage said under his breath.
“I’m not—”
“You are.” His eyes met hers, cool and certain. “And they’re not important.”
“Easy for you to say.”
He leaned in, murmuring near her ear, “Let them stare. They want to be you.”
She stopped breathing.
She turned, just enough to catch his eyes. Read masculine intention there. Controlled, but tonight, barely. A rush of restless energy climbed up her spine, making her toes curl inside her heels.
They finished dinner slowly. For a man of few words, conversation with him flowed easily.
He was good at asking questions, and even better at listening—like he was gathering data on her, one cell at a time.
She found herself speaking slower, picking her words with more thought.
He made her pay attention, made her think deeper. It was taxing. And invigorating.
The entire evening thrummed with something unnamed. It simmered quietly, building in every pause, pulsing each time he got close. When the waiter left with the bill, Gage asked, “Are you ready?”
To leave? To stay? To see what would happen if she stopped holding back?
Bea was unsure what he was asking at first. Or if she’d let herself say yes.
GAGE
Bea stepped out of her heels with a sigh, and shrunk three inches. Without them, she barely reached Gage’s chin. It shouldn’t have mattered. But it did.
She was smaller now. Closer. Easier to take if he wanted.
She caught him watching. Her mouth curved, open and easy, unaware of the pressure developing beneath his skin.
“Stop towering over me, Gage. Come in.”
An invitation. Careless. Unthinking.
He closed the distance. One hand slipped to her waist, the other tipping her chin up. His mouth covered hers before she could take it back.
Bea shivered. He held her closer. His mouth moved with purpose, coaxing, drawing her in. And then he felt it. The cautious slide of her tongue against his.
The smallest, sweetest surrender.
Exactly where he knew it would be.
His arms tightened, locking her against him. Her hands rose to his shirt, caught between wanting more and holding back.
If she were anyone else, he wouldn’t have stopped. But Bea wasn’t anyone else.
He slowed the kiss, peeling back the tension he’d let rise.
“Bea.” His voice was low. He waited until her eyelids lifted. “I want you to be mine. Tell me you’re mine.”
The haze of the kiss cleared. Clarity.
“Is that a question,” she murmured, “or an order?”
For a fraction of a second, he stilled.
He caught her wrist, guiding her hand to his chest, letting her feel the steady, unbroken rhythm beneath her palm. He leaned in, his mouth brushing her ear.
“Both. I want to hear you say it,” Gage drawled. He felt the way she stopped breathing.
For a second, he thought she would. Instead, she swallowed. Turned.
He let go.
She walked away. Quick, uncertain steps, as if the distance could hold him back. She headed toward the kitchen.
Bea turned again, and he was already there.
She froze, wide-eyed.
He moved toward her slowly. Knowing she would spook.
“Tell me what I already know,” he said quietly. His thumb traced her cheek, resting on her chin.
“And if I don’t?”
His hands slid up her waist, testing the edges of her resistance. “You’re shaking,” he observed.
“I’m not—”
He didn’t let her finish. In one clean motion, he lifted her onto the countertop. Her legs parted instinctively for balance, and he stepped between them, filling the space like it was his.
She inhaled sharply.
His hands held her steady. Letting her feel it: the restraint. The patience. The warning.
“You’re not…” He studied her face, every flicker of doubt and want. “…sure?”
His mouth grazed hers—once, twice—then down her jaw, her neck, tasting the place where her pulse pounded.
But something broke the spell.
“Stop,” she breathed, her voice barely above a whisper. “Enough.”
He stilled.
Didn’t step back. Didn’t release her. He pulled back enough to study her. Calculating every possibility. Every risk.
“Tell me, so I don’t have to decide for you.”
Bea stalled.
“Stay,” she said at last, her voice so soft it barely carried between them. “That’s all I can say tonight.”
A long silence stretched.
Then, without a word, he lifted her again. He carried her across the room and sank onto the couch, pulling her firmly into his lap. Not for comfort.
To claim her.
She stiffened briefly. Then, slowly, yielded to the shape he’d made for her. “This is…different,” she murmured.
“This is a reprieve,” he corrected.
He threaded their fingers together. Lifted her knuckles to his mouth. Kissed them once.
A promise of restraint.
Not mercy.