Chapter 26 Beautifully Devastating
Beautifully Devastating
Sabrina
Idon’t see him until he’s already there.
Too close. Inside my space. Close enough that my body reacts before my brain does—spine stiffening, smile slipping, breath catching in my throat.
“Hey,” he says, like we’re old friends. Like he didn’t disappear from my life in a way that still makes my stomach twist. “I need to talk to you.”
I don’t return the smile. I don’t soften. I school my face into something cool and distant, something I learned a long time ago.
“No,” I say flatly. “You don’t.”
He scoffs, leaning in like he’s entitled to my attention. “You owe me that much.”
I almost laugh.
I don’t owe him shit.
Before I can say it out loud, his fingers wrap around my arm. Not rough enough to draw eyes. Not gentle enough to be okay. Just enough pressure to remind me of who he thinks he is.
“I said I need to talk to you,” he insists, already turning, already tugging me toward the back hallway.
My heart starts to race.
I could yank my arm back. Make a scene. Call him out right here in the middle of the Reserve.
But I don’t.
Because I won’t give him the satisfaction.
So I go with him.
Willingly.
I keep my posture calm, my steps measured, like this is my choice and not something I’m doing to keep things from escalating. I tell myself I’ll stop him in the hallway. Tell him whatever he needs to hear to make him leave.
I glance back into the room—hoping, stupidly, that Langston is distracted. Caught in conversation. Looking anywhere but at me.
He isn’t.
He’s standing from his barstool.
Already moving.
And God—he looks unfair.
Tall. Broad. Effortlessly powerful in that quiet way that makes people move without realizing why.
His face is calm. Perfectly composed. Like this is just another moment in his day.
The bespoke suit—dark, flawless, and clearly expensive—should make him look untouchable, like the diamond dealer he is.
Instead, it just makes him look like a predator who knows he’s about to kill.
But his eyes—
The rage there is unmistakable.
It’s masked. Controlled. Locked down behind years of discipline and restraint. He is an entire man built on control, and to see it fraying, burning like this—over me—is a shockwave that travels straight to my core.
But it’s there.
And it’s terrifying.
And intoxicating.
The air around him feels charged, electric, as he cuts through the crowd.
He isn't rushing, yet he covers the distance with a smooth, terrifying certainty.
Every muscle in my body tenses, not in fear, but in anticipation.
This is my husband, the man who wants to learn every aspect of me, and right now, every aspect of him is focused on protecting his claim.
Heat curls low in my stomach at the sight of him walking toward us like the world will bend if he asks it to.
Like whatever happens next is already decided.
The possessive heat radiating off him is a physical entity, striking me harder than any physical touch could.
The thought that he is the reason for this beautiful, devastating storm of temper makes my breath catch, and I want nothing more than to feel those controlled, angry hands on me, not Elliott.
Elliott still doesn’t see him.
Still doesn’t realize he’s about to make the biggest mistake of his life.
My pulse hammers. My mouth goes dry.
I don’t know whether to stop walking or brace for impact.
So I whisper the only thought that makes it through the chaos in my head.
“Oh, shit.”