Chapter 7 My Wife
My Wife
Langston
Dean is rambling again.
Something about a joke he made to Maddison—his very off-limits social media manager—that she apparently didn’t find funny. He swears it was harmless, but from the way Nathan and Coleman keep shifting in their seats, I know I’m not the only one thinking this "emergency meeting" could’ve been a text.
I should be home.
Mabel, my housekeeper, is probably turning the place inside out trying to make it more “wife-friendly.” I told her to add color. Flowers. Warmth. She looked at me like I’d grown two heads, then promised she’d take care of it.
And now I’m stuck here, listening to Dean defend his lack of verbal filter, when I could be making sure the house doesn’t look like a damn hotel lobby when Sabrina walks through the door tomorrow.
She deserves better than sterile.
She deserves—
I hear her voice.
It’s like a punch to the chest. Low, familiar, velvet-wrapped chaos. She laughs, but it’s tight. Off.
My head snaps up.
It shouldn’t be her. She’s not supposed to be here.
But I’d recognize that sound anywhere.
I shift in the booth, my eyes scanning the crowd until—
There.
Red hair, wild and untamed, like a flare against the dim lighting. She’s standing near the edge of the dining room, a tray in her hands and a ghost of a smile on her lips. But her body’s too still. Too tense.
And her eyes—
They aren’t smiling.
Something’s wrong.
I’m out of the booth before anyone notices I’ve moved. Dean’s still talking. Nathan says something behind me. I don’t hear it.
All I know is that she is here.
Working.
Looking like she’s one word away from bolting.
And whatever’s doing that to her?
Is about to have a very bad night.
He touches her.
Or tries to.
Fingers raised. Smile slick.
“We could be good together,” he says, like he knows her. Like he has a right to say that to my wife.
Sabrina’s shoulders tense. “Elliot,” Her mouth opens, but before she can say another word, I’m there.
I don’t remember closing the distance.
But I do remember the sound of my voice.
Low. Lethal.
“Don’t fucking touch my wife.”
The words fall like a threat. Like a promise.
Elliott—or whatever the hell his name is—jerks his hand back like he’s been burned. Good. Because he’s about one second away from having every tooth he owns scattered across the Reserve’s marble floors.
Sabrina spins, her eyes wide. “Langston.”
She says my name like it’s a warning. Like I’m about to lose it.
And I am.
“Who the hell are you?” I snap at the man still stupid enough to be standing this close to her.
“I—uh—”
“Doesn’t matter.” I take one step forward, forcing him to backpedal. “You speak to her again, you’ll regret it.”
He opens his mouth, then thinks better of it.
Smart.
I wrap a hand around Sabrina’s waist—not gently—and pull her into my side. She fits like she was always supposed to be here. Like my world stops shaking when she’s right here.
She stiffens against me but doesn’t pull away.
Yet.
“Let’s go,” I mutter.
She blinks. “I’m working.”
“Not anymore.”
Her jaw ticks. “You don’t get to decide that.”
“I do when you’re being cornered by assholes with delusions.”
She exhales hard through her nose, biting back something she clearly wants to say. But I see it in her eyes—she’s shaken. That guy got too close. Said too much. Reminded her of something I don’t understand yet.
I’ll figure it out.
But not here.
Not with eyes on us.
“We’re leaving,” I say again, quieter this time. “Please.”
She hesitates.
And then she nods.
Only once.
But it’s enough.
We’re halfway to the door before I realize I left my damn phone in the booth.
Sabrina glares up at me. “I’m not your property.”
I breathe through my nose, jaw tight. “I didn’t say you were.”
She snorts. “You didn’t have to.”
Before I can respond, I turn back toward the table to grab my phone—and walk straight into an ambush.
“Well, that was… not subtle,” Dean says, brows raised so high they’re about to launch off his face.
“I give it a nine out of ten,” Nathan mutters, sipping his bourbon. “Docking a point because he didn’t throw the guy across the room.”
Harvey just grunts. “Should’ve hit him.”
Coleman leans back in his chair, arms crossed. “So. That’s your wife?”
I grab my phone off the table, muttering, “Yeah.”
Dean chokes on his drink. “Wait—wife wife?”
Nathan whistles. “Damn, Lang. You don’t waste time, do you?”
“She starting working here two months ago,” Coleman adds, grinning like a smug bastard. “And now she’s your wife?”
I shoot him a look. “Didn’t we agree you were done meddling in my life?”
He just shrugs, clearly not sorry in the least.
Sabrina drifts a little closer, her body half behind mine like she’s debating whether to bolt or stay. I curl my arm around her waist again, more possessive than I mean to be.
“Guys,” I say, turning toward them. “This is Sabrina. My wife.”
There’s a moment of silence.
Then Dean says, “You poor woman.”
Nathan snorts.
Harvey turns towards Sabrina and says, “You could’ve done worse.”
Sabrina cracks a smile, eyes lighting with something dangerously close to mischief. “You have no idea.”
And just like that, they all laugh—and the tension thins, a little.
But I don’t miss the way she’s still stiff beside me.
I don’t miss the way her eyes dart toward the entrance.
Or the way my fingers tighten on her hip without meaning to.
She’s not ready to trust me yet.
But she will.
Because I meant it when I said she’s mine.
And no one—no one—gets to touch what’s mine.
She’s been quiet for five blocks.
Too quiet.
Sabrina’s arms are crossed, her chin tilted just enough to make me think she’s still trying to ignore the way I keep looking at her.
But I can’t help it.
I should be asking her who that guy was. What the hell he meant by “we could be good together.” Why her face looked like someone had scraped the color from it with a knife.
But instead, I just… watch her.
Her profile in the low city light.
The tension in her shoulders.
The way she chews the inside of her cheek like she’s at war with herself.
I grip the steering wheel tighter.
She startles when she notices the route.
“This isn’t the way to my place.”
“I know.”
She straightens. “Langston. I have work tomorrow.”
“You’re not going back to that bar.”
“I haven’t quit yet.”
“I know that, too.”
She glares at me. “So where are we going?”
“My house is—”
“We’re not going to your house.”
I glance at her. “I’m aware.”
I make a turn into the circular drive of one of the most exclusive hotels in the city. Valet steps forward immediately, but I wave them off, guiding us to a private entrance in the back.
Sabrina goes quiet again.
Then she exhales a short, disbelieving laugh. “A hotel?”
I throw the car in park and finally turn to her fully. “Let’s order food. Talk. Enjoy the night.”
I pause. Let my eyes drag over her slowly.
“Our wedding night.”
Her lips part, just slightly.
And fuck me—I want to taste them again.
But all I can think about is how much better tonight would be with her beneath me… her hair wild against silk sheets, my hand tangled in the strands while the other grips that soft, beautiful throat of hers—not hard. Just enough to make her gasp. To make her feel it.
Me.
All of me.
Claiming what’s mine.
I blink hard, dragging myself back to the moment.
She’s watching me now, like she knows exactly where my mind just went.
Good.
Maybe that’ll help her stop pretending she doesn’t feel this pull between us too.
I get out of the car and move around to her door.
And when I open it—she doesn't move.
I offer my hand anyway.
Her eyes flick from mine to my palm and back again.
And then, slowly… she takes it.