Paradise
The door slams, and I’m left with nothing but silence.
Her perfume still hangs in the air—sweet, sinful, clinging to me like a bruise. That dress clung to her tighter than my hands ever have, and now she’s out there flaunting herself for every bastard with a wallet and a pulse.
I told her to change. She smirked and walked out, anyway.
She thinks this is a game.
My jaw aches from how hard I’m clenching it. The banister groans under my grip, wood splintering against my palm. She has no fucking idea what she just started.
Brooklyn Lane doesn’t walk out of my house dressed like that and leave me behind. Not after the way she looked at me. Not after the way her lips trembled when I told her to be mine.
She wants to test me? Fine. Let her.
But she won’t last the night without me reminding her who she belongs to.
I pour a bourbon and down it in one swallow, the burn doing nothing to douse the fire in my chest. Images of her crawl through my mind—the way she moaned my name against the wall, the way she smirked tonight just to spite me.
Defiant little thing.
She thinks she can provoke me in front of Kate, that I’ll keep my hands tied because my daughter’s in the room.
She doesn’t understand. I don’t tie my own hands.
By the time I set the glass down, I’ve already made my decision.
Paradise. That’s where she said they were going. Of course I know the club. I own half of it.
Brooklyn wants to play in my world? Wants to taunt me in front of strangers, let men stare at what’s mine?
Then I’ll be there.
And when I take her home tonight, she’ll learn the hard way—there are no games with me. Only rules. Only consequences.
And Brooklyn Lane is about to choke on both.
The drive is a blur. Red lights. Horns. The city stretched out in front of me like a neon jungle.
None of it matters. All I can see is her—bare legs crossed, drink in her hand, laughing too loud at something she doesn’t find funny, some bastard leaning too close because she walked out of my house dressed to be devoured.
By the time I pull up outside Paradise, my blood is already running hot.
The line is long, but I don’t wait. I never wait. The bouncer stiffens when he sees me, moves aside without a word. I don’t bother acknowledging him. My eyes are already adjusting to the dim glow of the club, the bass rattling through the floor like a second heartbeat.
I find her instantly.
She’s on the dance floor with Kate, the crowd swallowing them whole, but Brooklyn stands out like a flame in the dark. That dress—black, indecent, the plunge exposing skin I’ve tasted but no one else ever will. My hands twitch. My jaw grinds.
And then I see it.
A man—some kid in a designer shirt—steps up behind her, hands inching toward her hips like he’s entitled to touch her.
My vision tunnels.
She laughs, tossing her hair back, pretending she doesn’t notice.
But I see her eyes flick sideways, searching.
For me, no matter how much she pretends to hate me, no matter how much venom drips from that sharp little mouth, she knows who she belongs to.
She can taunt me, defy me, push until I’m ready to snap, but she won’t let another man lay a finger on her.
I move before the kid even realises what’s about to happen. My hand closes around his wrist, iron-tight, stopping him cold. His eyes widen when he sees me. “Back off.”
He stammers something, but I’m not listening. I lean down until my mouth is at Brooklyn’s ear, close enough for her to feel the heat rolling off me.
“Enjoying yourself?”
Her body stiffens, just for a second, then she tilts her head back and smirks, lips curling like she’s not the one trembling. “Why, jealous, Mr Walker?”
I want to drag her out of here. I want to bend her over the nearest table and fuck that smug little smile right off her face.
Instead, I press harder into the boy’s wrist until he yelps and pulls back, disappearing into the crowd. My hand slides dangerously close to Brooklyn’s hip, not quite touching, but claiming all the same.
“Careful,” I growl into her ear. “You’re one more stunt away from me fucking you in front of everyone here just to remind you who owns that body.”
Her laugh is low, wicked. “Maybe I want them to watch.”
My cock twitches, my vision blurs, and for the first time all night, I almost lose it.
Almost.
But I don’t.
Not yet.
Because when I take her tonight, it won’t be in front of these people. It’ll be where no one else can hear her scream my name.
And she will.
She’ll scream until her voice breaks.
She slips from my reach, vanishing into the sea of bodies, but she’s not fast enough. Not for me.
Brooklyn thinks she can play this game—teasing me, baiting me, running—but she doesn’t understand. I don’t chase. I hunt.
The crowd swallows her for a moment, lights strobing across her bare legs, the glint of her hair as she spins with Kate. My blood pounds harder with every second she’s out of my sight. My knuckles ache from clenching into fists.
I see her again near the bar, leaning in close to whisper something to Kate, that dress pulling tight across her ass when she bends slightly forward. Every man within ten feet is staring. My chest heaves, heat clawing its way up my spine.
She does it on purpose.
My little rebel. My little brat.
I move through the crowd slowly, deliberately, letting her feel me before she sees me. Every step timed with the thrum of bass, every inch of me wired tight with the need to pin her down and remind her what happens when she tests me.
She sensed me first. I can tell by the way her spine stiffens, her head tilting just enough, eyes darting across the room like she’s not searching for me—but she is.
And when our eyes finally lock, it’s like the whole fucking club disappears.
Her lips part, a flash of breathless defiance, but she doesn’t look away.
That’s what kills me. That’s what makes me want to ruin her.
She could make this easy—drop her gaze, tuck her chin, pretend she isn’t mine.
But she doesn’t. She holds my stare like she’s daring me to come and take what’s already mine.
So I do.
I stalk closer, never breaking eye contact, pushing through the bodies like they don’t exist. Her hand curls tighter around her glass, knuckles white, but she doesn’t move. She waits.
By the time I reach her, I’m so close I can smell her perfume over the stale beer and sweat. Sweet. Addictive. I dip my head until my lips brush her ear.
“Run.”
Her breath catches, chest rising sharply against the low cut of that sinful dress. She knows I mean it.
“Run,” I repeat, voice rough, “and I’ll find you.”
She smirks—cocky, reckless—but her pulse gives her away, fluttering like a trapped bird under her skin. Then she slips past me, weaving into the crowd again.
And I follow.
The crowd closes around her like a maze, but she doesn’t know the walls belong to me. Every corner, every hallway, every shadow in this place—I own it. She can run, but she’ll never get far.
I watch the sway of her hips as she slips deeper into the pulse of the dance floor, the strobe lights cutting her into fragments—here, gone, here again. My little phantom, daring me to catch her.
She glances over her shoulder once. Just once. That’s all I need.
Because it isn’t fear in her eyes. It’s a challenge.
My cock throbs, rage and desire bleeding into one ugly, perfect knot in my chest. She wants me angry. She wants me to starve. She doesn’t understand that’s when I’m at my most dangerous.
She disappears toward the back, down a narrow hall lined with velvet curtains. Private alcoves. Shadows thick enough to hide in. She thinks she’s clever, slipping away where Kate won’t follow.
I push after her, the press of bodies thinning, the music muffled by heavy walls. The further I go, the darker it gets, until it’s just me, the pounding of bass like a heartbeat in the distance, and the faint click of her heels ahead of me.
I slow down.
Deliberate.
Let her hear me coming.
One step. Then another.
Her pace quickens, and the sound is fucking intoxicating. She wants to run, but not too fast. She wants me to catch her, but not too soon.
Good girl.
I round the corner, and there she is—caught at the end of the hallway, palm pressed against the wall like she needs it to steady herself. With each frantic breath, she turned her head, her gaze erratic.
“Going somewhere?” My voice is low, filling the space between us.
She smirks, but it falters at the edges. “Just needed some air.”
I stalk closer slowly, savouring every flicker of her nerves. “Liar.”
She straightens her spine, tilts her chin. “You don’t own me.”
I chuckle darkly and sharply, the sound echoing off the walls. “Don’t I?”
Another step. Then another. She presses back into the wall, no more space left to retreat, her smirk slipping even as her eyes burn with defiance.
I brace my hand against the wall beside her head, caging her in, my body crowding hers without even touching. Her breath shudders, her pulse frantic.
“You wanted this,” I growl against her ear. “All that running, all that teasing—you wanted me to hunt you. So here we are.”
Her lips part, a soft gasp escaping, but she doesn’t answer.
She doesn’t need to.
Her body already did.
Her silence is gasoline. I lean in closer, so close the tip of my nose grazes her cheek, so close she can feel how hard I am pressed against her thigh without me needing to move another inch.
“You think you can run in my town? In my club?” My words scrape low across her skin, and her chest arches up like she’s fighting for air. “You wanted me mad, didn’t you?”
Her lips part, that sharp little mouth opening like she might deny it—but my hand is already wrapping around her throat. Not tight. Not enough to scare her. Just enough to remind her who’s got her pinned against the wall.
“Answer me.”
Her throat works against my palm. “Maybe,” she whispers, defiant even when her voice trembles.