Chapter 10
The martini glass hits the table with a thud so hard I’m surprised I don’t shatter the thin stem. When I release it, my hand is shaking with a nervous tremor that vibrates through my fingertips, the twitches matching the sudden racing of my heart.
Gunnar is looming over me, ominously dressed in all black.
His tactical pants rest at his hips, and the fitted shirt tucked into them strains against the muscles of his shoulders.
His blue eyes are stormy and dark—and currently fixed on me with the kind of intensity that leaves me squirming in my seat.
Everything about him screams control and barely restrained violence.
Needing to say something, to establish some sort of boundary and remind us both that he works for me and not the other way around, I clear my throat. “Gunna—”
“Now!” The lone word cracks like a whip, and I flinch.
I need to assert myself, remind this man who I am, but I’m frozen under his furious gaze. I can’t look away from the muscle ticking in his jaw or the way his hands are curling and uncurling at his sides as he physically tries to rein in his control.
His large hand wraps around my upper arm.
It’s not gentle or rough, but a firm, inexorable grip of someone who knows exactly how much pressure to apply to move a body where he pleases.
Before I can react, he pulls me out of the booth with a strength that causes my breath to catch.
I stumble against him as I struggle to find my footing, my free hand finding purchase on his remarkably firm chest.
“Hey!” Scarlet’s voice is sharp and outraged. “What the hell do you think you’re doing?”
“Enjoy the rest of your night, ladies.” Gunnar’s voice is so polite and pleasant that it is somehow infinitely more terrifying. “Devyn is done for the night.”
“Excuse me?” Mia stands, pulling her phone from her purse.
Using the leverage of my palm on his chest, I push back from him, quickly finding myself reeled back in by the firm hold of my arm. “You can’t just—”
But he can. He absolutely can. Gunnar dips at the waist and hoists me over his shoulder like I weigh nothing more than a gym bag.
As the blood rushes to my head, I let out a sound that is embarrassingly close to a shriek.
“Put me down!” I pound my fists against his back, but it’s like hitting a wall.
A very warm, solid wall that smells faintly of cedar.
My stomach flips, a reaction that has nothing to do with my sudden inverted position. “Gunnar, I swear to God—”
“Swear away.” He turns on his heel, and I watch the restaurant floor beneath me, polished wood and feet of people who are undoubtedly staring, pass as he quickly crosses the space. “You’re only making this worse.”
“Worse?!” I snap, my high-pitched voice carrying across the hushed dining room as I try to writhe free of his hold. “How could this possibly get any worse?”
His answer comes in the form of an adjusted grip, his hand sliding down until he’s cupping my ass.
He palms me with casual possession to keep me firmly on his shoulder.
The heat of his palm burns through the thin silk of my dress.
I gasp, a sharp, involuntary intake of air that has nothing to do with my outrage and everything to do with the sudden, electric awareness of exactly how close his fingers are to places they shouldn’t be.
“Your hand…” I splutter, my face burning with embarrassment and arousal. “Your hand is on my—”
“Consider it an incentive to stop squirming.”
We are not going unnoticed, not in the slightest. Scandalized gasps and chatter follow from every table that we pass.
Gunnar’s long legs eat up the distance between our booth and the exit, each step bouncing me against him, making me equal parts dizzy and furious.
And maybe a little something else that I am really not prepared to think about right now.
The doorman shouts something about calling the police and assault charges, but it does nothing to slow Gunnar’s trajectory. He bursts through the exit, and the flashes of paparazzi cameras blind me as we step onto the sidewalk.
“Devyn! Devyn, who’s the guy?”
“Is that your new boyfriend?”
“Devyn, look over here!”
This cannot be happening.
As if this isn’t humiliating enough with photographic evidence. I can already picture the headlines.
DEVYN MARTIN: OVER THE SHOULDER AND OUT OF CONTROL
I bury my face in Gunnar’s shirt, inhaling the maddening scent of him, wishing I could disappear.
“Keys,” Gunnar barks at the valet. “The Aston Martin.”
“Sir, that’s not—”
“Now.”
The valet must see something in his face that I can’t, because the protest dies as quickly as it arrived.
There’s the jingle of metal, and then he shifts me slightly before catching them one-handed.
The moment he has them, he trudges me across the pavement to where my car is parked.
He yanks open the passenger door and very unceremoniously dumps me into the seat, his hands traveling over my body as he drops me like I’m cargo.
I scramble for dignity, leverage, or anything that will let me reclaim the smallest sliver of control. “You are a fucking caveman. Do you know that? A neanderthal. A—”
“Seatbelt.” He completely ignores me before reaching across me, his arm brushing my chest as he grabs the belt and pulls it across my body.
His face is inches from mine, close enough that I can see the flecks of gold in his blue eyes, the clenched jaw beneath his short beard, and the vein pulsing in his temple.
He’s furious. Absolutely livid. And despite everything—the humiliation, outrage, and sheer indignity of being carried out of a restaurant like a sack of potatoes—I can’t stop noticing how unfairly attractive he is when he’s angry.
The muscle in his jaw ticks again, a steady rhythm of irritation that I find myself weirdly fascinated by.
He slams my door and rounds the car, sliding into the driver’s seat with a grace that makes me hate him a little more.
His hands find the gearshift, and I watch, helpless and mesmerized, as his forearm flexes when he wraps his fingers around it.
The tendons shift beneath his skin, strong, capable, and stupidly distracting.
“You can’t just—”
“Can’t just what?” The engine roars and peels out of the valet. I grab the door handle as he whips my little sports car into oncoming traffic. “Can’t just do my job? Can’t just provide you with the protection that you are paying for?”
“I wasn’t in danger! I was having dinner with my friends—”
“In a public restaurant, in a restricted vehicle, with no security, after explicitly being told the protocols were nonnegotiable.” He shifts gears again, and his hand works the stick, the movement sharp and controlled. “Do you have any idea what could have happened? Do you even care?”
“I care about not being a prisoner in my own home!” The words explode out of me, hot and frustrated. “I care about being treated like a human being, instead of a package that doesn’t have feelings or needs!”
“Human beings are vulnerable, Devyn.” His voice drops, quiet and deadly.
“I understand that you think you’re important and too special for the rules to apply to you.
You’re not special. Not to a bullet. Not to a blade.
Not when it comes to a stalker who wants to get their hands on you.
Not to anyone who wants to hurt you badly enough. ”
Something in his tone causes my throat to tighten, forming a knot that I struggle to swallow back down.
I shift my gaze away from him—looking out the window at the blur of lights, palm trees, and the endless stream of cars—with my hands clenched tightly in my lap, my nails digging tiny crescents into my palms.
“You’re a spoiled little brat,” he continues, and I flinch at the accuracy of his insult. “You think this is a game. That you’re proving something by sneaking out and disobeying the rules. Do you think treating the people trying to keep you safe like they’re the enemy is actually a good idea?”
“Maybe you are the enemy,” I mutter, hating how childish it sounds as it spills over my lips.
“If that’s truly how you feel, you’re already dead.
” He takes a corner too fast, and I slide against the door, bracing myself too late with my forearm.
“You’re so caught up in your own world that if the man who is actually hunting you wants you dead, you’ll never see it coming. You’ll just be gone.”
I wrap my arms around myself as the city gives way to Pacific Coast Highway, the gates of my property looming ahead. He barely slows when we approach the house.
The moment the car rolls to a stop, I hastily undo my seatbelt and push open the door.
My heels click furiously against the cobblestones of the drive as I storm toward the house, needing to be away from him.
I can’t stand the sight of his perfect forearms and the way he manages to make me feel small, stupid, and seen.
I shove through the front door, my breath coming in ragged gasps that I try to convince myself are from anger and not the tears pricking at the corners of my eyes.
Gunnar is practically on my heel, his boots stomping across the driveway and up the front steps.
I storm into the foyer, past the staring faces of Hawk and Jagger.
“Devyn!” Gunnar’s voice, sharp behind me.
Not breaking my stride, I keep walking to put much-needed distance between us.
I need to drink a bottle of wine and scream my frustrations into my pillow.
Like any sane thirty-year-old woman. Then, I can try to figure out why I can still feel the burn of his hand on my ass, and why the flex of his forearm is the only thing I see when I close my eyes.