Chapter 9 #2
Damon pulls to a stop beside the valet, and I immediately clock the Aston Martin, still waiting to be parked.
He kills the engine and waits in silence, which right now is probably for the best. I open the passenger door.
The evening air is warm, carrying the scent of exhaust and expensive perfume. “Wait here.”
Damon winces. “Oh, fuck.”
It’s a reasonable reaction. He has worked with me long enough to know what happens when I get this tone in my voice. My patience has been ground down to nothing but jagged edges.
I step out onto the pavement. Golden light spills through the restaurant’s massive windows—warm and inviting—a stark contrast to the cold fury building inside my chest. My gaze flits across the crowded tables through the glass, people drinking and laughing and enjoying themselves, looking for Devyn.
Not spotting her, my pace quickens, my long legs eating up the distance between the car and the entrance.
My boots strike the pavement, sharp and decisive, each footfall punctuating my body language.
The doorman is a large, broad, professionally dressed man who looks very much like he knows how to handle himself and how to discourage unwanted patrons from entering this upscale establishment.
As I near him, it only becomes more clear that he has been hired specifically to maintain their precious exclusivity.
Unfortunately for him, I am the problem they hoped to avoid.
He steps forward as I approach, his body language shifting into a blocking position, his face settling into the mask of polite refusal he has perfected over years of turning people away. “Reservation?”
“No.” I keep walking, not breaking stride.
His expression doesn’t change, but I can see the calculation in his eyes as he assesses my threat level and determines how much force will be necessary to remove me. “Then I’m afraid—”
“I’m with Devyn Martin.”
The man blinks at me twice before laughing.
It’s a deep belly laugh that shakes his shoulders and crinkles the corners of his eyes.
He thinks I’m joking. To him, it’s nothing more than a line—a pathetic attempt to gain entry by associating myself with one of their wealthy patrons.
I stare back at him, my eyes cold, not joining in the humor he’s finding in this situation.
He continues smiling, the expression taking on a patronizing edge. “Sure you are.” His words drip with condescension and the absolute certainty that I am lying. A man like me could not possibly know someone like Devyn Martin, because I am beneath her and, therefore, beneath him.
What little patience I have been holding onto the past two days finally snaps.
It explodes in a wave of controlled violence that has been waiting to erupt since Jagger informed me Devyn had left the property.
Years of training manifest into a single movement, my hand surging forward in a sharp blow to his throat.
The strike is quick, controlled, and precise.
It’s not enough to seriously injure him—I’m not a monster—but more than enough to end the conversation and his ability to remain standing.
He collapses onto one knee, clutching his neck with both hands.
His face turns an alarming shade of red as he tries to remember how to breathe while his body panics at the sudden interruption of airflow.
I step around him as several nearby guests gasp, their conversations dying mid-sentence.
The restaurant opens before me in a wash of music, and expensive lighting.
People turn, and confusion spreads through the room like a ripple in a pond as a six-foot-four security operative with rapidly diminishing patience storms through the dining area.
My gaze sweeps the room with methodical precision, scanning the faces at each table while assessing threats.
I spot her in a private corner booth, the perfect secluded spot for someone who doesn’t want to be found.
Three women surround her, their faces animated.
Cocktails glitter on the table, condensation running down the glasses.
The commotion of my entrance hasn’t penetrated their bubble of privilege and safety.
Holding her martini glass elegantly in one hand, Devyn laughs at something her friend says.
The sweet sound carries across the space between us as a genuine smile plays at the corners of her mouth.
She is beautiful and looks like she was born to live this privileged lifestyle.
Her gaze lifts, and her eyes find mine, her smile disappearing as though I reached across the room and wiped it from her face. Her eyes widen, and the color drains from her face as the martini glass trembles in her hand, the liquid sloshing dangerously close to the rim.
She knows.
She can see the controlled fury in my face, posture, and every rigid line of my body.
The consequences of her actions are storming in her direction with the heavy thud of combat boots.
Judging by the look of absolute horror crossing her features—the panic flashing in her eyes, parted lips, and sudden rigidness of her spine—she knows with absolute certainty that she is in trouble.
Deep trouble.
The kind of trouble that doesn’t care about her celebrity status and has no intention of leaving without her.
As I hastily close the distance between us, her friends follow her gaze and turn their attention toward me. The bewilderment in their features quickly gives way to alarm when I get close enough to see the pulse hammering in Devyn’s throat and smell her expensive floral perfume.
“Devyn.” My voice is low and controlled. “We’re leaving.”
She sets down the martini glass, her hand now steady, despite the nervousness in her eyes. “Gunnar—”
“Now.” My tone leaves no room for question. This isn’t a request; it’s a demand—whether she likes it or not.