Chapter Twenty Chloe
Spock draws out my chair, waiting until I gather the skirt of my dress and settle onto the plush seat before he takes the chair across from me.
The gesture shouldn’t surprise me. Beneath the leather vest, intimidating muscles, and dangerous reputation, Spock has a considerate streak he tries to keep hidden.
It appears in little moments—helping me off his bike, keeping his hand at the small of my back as we move through the crowded restaurant, making sure I’m comfortable before he sits.
I glance around Cerebus again, taking in details I missed when we first entered.
The dining room is sophisticated and alluring.
Dark wood panels line the walls, broken by flickering amber sconces that cast soft pools of light over the tables.
Black marble gleams beneath my feet, threaded with veins of gold that match the fixtures hanging overhead.
Deep-red velvet booths curve around intimate tables, offering privacy while still allowing diners to see and be seen.
The room hums with quiet conversation and the delicate clink of crystal and silverware. Everything about the place whispers wealth and exclusivity.
My gaze returns to Spock. He looks completely at ease, as though dining in one of the hottest restaurants inside one of the most popular casinos in Las Vegas is an everyday occurrence for him.
Maybe it is.
“Do the Demon Dawgs really own this restaurant?” I ask, still struggling to wrap my mind around the idea.
His mouth tips into the smirk that always makes something warm unfurl low in my stomach. “We do.”
“How?” I gesture toward the packed dining room. “Cerebus is nearly impossible to get into. People wait months for a reservation. How did an MC manage to buy one of the hottest restaurants near 1%?”
His looks at me in confusion.
“We own 1%. You didn’t know?”
For several seconds, I can only stare at him.
“The Demon Dawgs own 1%?”
“The majority of it.”
I blink, certain I must have misheard him. “You own the majority of one of the most popular casinos in Las Vegas?”
“That’s what I said.”
He delivers the statement with maddening calm, as though he’s telling me the club owns a neighborhood bar rather than a massive luxury casino on the Strip.
A server approaches and pours water into our glasses before silently withdrawing. Spock waits until the man is out of earshot before leaning back in his chair.
“1% was Puma’s brainchild,” he explains. “When he became president, he decided the club needed to make money legally. He wanted businesses that would protect the club’s future and give the brothers a legitimate income.”
“And he chose a casino?”
“This is Vegas.” Spock lifts one shoulder. “A casino was the best option. Puma already had millions, so he used some of his money to help get it established. The club brought in other investors, but we kept the majority share.”
I glance toward the entrance, where another elegantly dressed couple is being escorted to their table. “That was a risk.”
“It was, but it turned out to be the best investment the club ever made.”
“The casino has to bring in a fortune.”
“It does, and not only from the gaming floor or hotel rooms.” He gestures around the dining room.
“1% owns a piece of every business operating inside the casino. Restaurants, bars, shops, entertainment venues. They get premium space and a steady stream of customers. We get a percentage of their profits.”
“That includes Cerebus?”
He nods. “The casino provided the location and helped with the initial investment. The chef and her partner own the majority of the restaurant, but the Demon Dawgs own a third. They get a cut of the profits and access to some of the best food in Vegas.”
I sit back, genuinely impressed. I expected an explanation involving luck, intimidation, or possibly both. Instead, he describes a smart, carefully structured business empire.
“That’s brilliant.”
“That’s Puma.”
My gaze travels over the luxurious dining room once more before settling on the man across from me. Every new thing I learn about the Demon Dawgs challenges what I thought I knew about them. They’re dangerous men. I do not doubt that.
But they’re also loyal, strategic, and far more successful than they let outsiders see.
“I’m impressed,” I admit.
Spock leans forward, his eyes locking with mine. “Good. But wait until you taste the food.”
After we place our orders, the server collects our menus and leaves us alone, surrounded by the low murmur of conversation.
Spock takes a sip of water, his gaze remaining on me over the rim of his glass. “Why construction?”
The question catches me off guard. “What?”
“You could’ve started any kind of business. Why did you choose a construction firm?”
There’s genuine curiosity in his voice. He isn’t making conversation merely to fill the silence while we wait for our food. He wants to know.
I trace one finger through the condensation on my glass. “My dad was a woodworker.”
“Cabinets?”
I nod, surprised he remembers what I told him about Dad’s work. “Mostly custom cabinetry. He built everything from kitchen cabinets and bathroom vanities to bookcases and entertainment centers. He did the installations himself, too.”
“Sounds like he was good with his hands.”
“The best.” Warmth spreads through me as memories fill my mind. “When I was little, I used to sit in his workshop and watch him work. I grew up loving the smell of freshly cut wood. “
Spock’s attention never wanders. He doesn’t glance around the crowded dining room or check his phone. With the way he focuses on me, I can almost believe we’re the only people in Cerberus.
“When did he start letting you help?” he asks.
“How did you know he let me help?” I ask.
“Because you and your dad are close. I can’t see him not wanting to share his gift with you.”
I smile at his comment as the server delivers our food.
“Not until I was older. Before that, I was only allowed to hand him tools and sweep up sawdust. Eventually, he taught me how to measure and sand. Then he let me use some of the smaller tools.” I pause, remembering how proud I’d been the first time he trusted me to work without him hovering.
“By high school, I was working for him after school, on weekends, and during the summers. I started going along on installations.”
“That’s when you got interested in the rest of the building process?”
His question makes me pause. “Yes. Exactly.”
He’s following the story instead of simply waiting for his turn to speak.
“I got to see everything up close,” I continue.
“New builds that were nothing but framing when Dad first measured the space—renovations where crews stripped rooms down to the studs and rebuilt them. I watched plumbers, electricians, drywall crews, and tile setters. I saw how all the different trades had to work together and how one mistake could throw off everyone’s schedule. ”
“Like putting up drywall before confirming the wiring is finished,” Spock says, his expression sharpening.
The reference to Blackwood and the demolished wall sends a flicker of tension through me. “Exactly. Which is why his explanation still bothers me. A competent foreman should have caught that before the drywall went up.”
“And you would’ve.”
It isn’t a question.
“I’d like to think so.”
“I know so.” His voice is firm. “You checked in with every crew at Inferno Ridge. You knew what stage each house was in, what needed to happen next, and whether the work matched the plans. Your people listen to you because you know what you’re doing.”
His certainty settles somewhere deep inside me. Too many men hear that I own a construction company and assume my father handed it to me—or that I sit in an office while men do the real work. Spock has watched me on my sites. More importantly, he has paid attention.
“I fell in love with the process,” I tell him. “Taking an empty lot or a broken-down building and turning it into something useful felt almost like magic. Dad created beautiful things from raw wood. I wanted to do the same thing on a different scale.”
“So you built DC Construction.”
“I did.”
For the first time in days, I’m not thinking about threats, sabotage, or the man who attacked my father.
I’m thinking about the way Spock sees me—not as someone who needs to be pushed aside and protected, but as a woman capable of building something worth protecting.
“Dessert?” Spock asks after they clear our empty plates.
I pat my stomach. “I’m too full.”
Spock’s hand settles against the small of my back as he guides me out of Cerberus to where he left his bike. He takes the helmet from the handlebars and holds it out to me.
He keeps one hand firmly around mine and the other at my waist as I climb onto the bike. Once I’m settled, he mounts in front of me.
“Back to Inferno Ridge?” I ask.
He nods.
I wrap my arms around his waist, trying not to think too hard about how natural the gesture has become. Spock starts the engine, and the powerful rumble vibrates through me. Moments later, we pull away from the casino and merge into the bright river of traffic flowing along the Strip.
I rest my cheek against the back of his leather kutte and watch the city streak past. Tonight has been an unexpected reprieve from everything waiting for me—the threats, the sabotage, Dad’s attack, and the growing certainty that someone wants to destroy my company.
For a few hours, I’ve simply been a woman having dinner with a man who not only listens to me, but respects what I’ve built.
When we finally leave the congestion behind, the familiar desert landscape opens around us. I know we’re getting close to Inferno Ridge, and disappointment settles heavily in my stomach. My truck is waiting there. Once I climb into it, the night ends.
Spock slows as we approach the turnoff.
Then, instead of turning left into Inferno Ridge, he turns right into the clubhouse parking lot.
The gate opens, and he guides the motorcycle through before parking near the front doors. When the engine goes silent, I pull off my helmet and look across the highway. Inferno Ridge is visible in the distance, my truck still parked beside the construction trailer.
“You missed the turn,” I point out.
“No, I didn’t.”
Spock climbs off and offers me his hand. His expression is unreadable, but there’s a deliberate glint in his eyes that sends warmth curling through my belly.
“My truck is over there.”
“I know where your truck is.”
“Then why are we here?”
He steadies me as I dismount, keeping his hands on my waist even after both my feet are safely on the ground.
“Because it’s late, you’ve had a long day, and I’m not ready for tonight to end.”