Chapter 3
CHAPTER THREE
Fiero
The moment I saw her walk through the door, everything in my body seized up, triggered, sent hurtling back fifteen years to the moment that changed my life.
My chest strained as though a hand was clenched around it. My shoulders lifted and my knees locked in place as if a threat had entered the premises.
Karma hasn’t been enough of a bitch to Pfeiffer McAllister.
She was always pretty, with her pinkish blond hair, turquoise eyes, full blood-red lips and a figure that wouldn’t snap if manhandled too hard. But fast forward fifteen years and she’s fucking stunning.
What used to be a flaxen bob with wisps curling around an elfin face is now a sleek sheath of flaming sunset caught in a low ponytail that would look perfect wrapped around my fist. Her cheekbones have sharpened and her body has softened into elegant, dangerous curves that draw attention without her even trying.
But it’s her expression that catches me off guard. It’s open and warm, not hardened, or cruel, or manipulative. Not like I would have expected her to be.
She looks out over my club, her fingers tightening nervously around each other as she tries to see beneath the masks. She’s right to be nervous. She has no idea she’s just walked right into the lion’s den, and that over the next few weeks, she’s going to be mauled.
For fifteen years, I built Pfeiffer McAllister into a monster inside my head. I sharpened my memory of her into something venomous just so I’d have somewhere to put the rage. Somewhere to direct the rot she left behind.
But sitting here now, watching her smile politely at Vivienne, who knows exactly why I’ve brought her here, I realize something deeply inconvenient.
There’s no sign of the girl who destroyed me. Only the girl I used to watch from across hallways and crowded classrooms. The girl I wanted so badly back then that hatred became the only thing strong enough to cauterize it.
That somehow makes this worse.
“She’s prettier than the photos.”
Remo’s voice slides across the booth.
“And the grainy security footage,” Cass adds. “But then again, isn’t everyone?”
Brando snorts.
I lift the cigarette to my mouth and take a much-needed drag. She’s doing what no one else dares to do. She’s staring.
When Hallie returns and murmurs something close to her ear, I notice the flush in Pfeiffer’s cheek.
I reach for my whiskey, ignoring my brothers.
Remo leans back slowly, studying me with more attention now. “You think she knows?”
“No.” My answer is absolute. “She has no idea.”
She turns slightly beneath the amber lighting, and for one unbearable second I see the ghost of the girl from fifteen years ago—the one who slowly shrank in plain sight, no one seeming to notice but me.
The wild cat who lured me in with her cute purr and soft paws only to lash out with sharp talons and a poisonous hiss when I went too close for comfort.
The girl who turned my entire world upside down.
Whenever I’ve imagined this moment, I picture someone cruel. Someone I could punish without hesitation.
Instead, Pfeiffer McAllister looks painfully human.
The way she keeps smoothing down her dress with shaking fingers makes me itch with curiosity.
Back in high school she had the world at her feet. Here, the most popular girl in class is struggling to adapt to my world.
It makes me hard.
It also muddies my motivation.
I’d expected someone I would want to ruin on sight, not someone who makes me question her ability to handle it, or stand up for herself. Ruining someone who can’t—or won’t—fight back is no fucking fun.
I stand and drain the rest of my whiskey in one burning swallow.
Remo watches me over steepled fingers. “The games are about to begin.”
My gaze settles on Pfeiffer again just as she tucks a loose strand of rose gold hair behind her ear and smiles nervously at the room.
I want to stay here in the lounge and watch her.
God, I could watch her all night. I’m already high on the thought.
But, I need to get the fuck out of here before my erection becomes noticeable.
I haven’t brought her here for a damn peep show, though we do have openings.
I brought her here to fuck up her life the way she fucked up mine.
A slow ache spreads through my ribs. “Yeah,” I say quietly, stepping in her direction.
And God help her.
I keep my eyes on my new pet as I walk through the tables, nodding a brief greeting to the guests following every measured step.
The little traitor straightens, swallows, takes a step back. But still she doesn’t remove her fucking gaze.
She either has a damn death wish or she’s brazen as all hell. No one stares at me for this long.
My molars grind hard, my fingers flexing and curling in an agitated manner. I want to grab her, drag her, scream at her, break her into pieces, but then she closes those staggering eyes, shuttering herself behind those carefully bronzed lids.
I keep walking, my heart hammering, trying to wrench itself out of my chest, and I don’t slow until I reach my office and lock the damn door.
A punch bag hangs in the corner, unused until now.
I throw my jacket to the floor and tear through the buttons on my shirt, then I unleash over a decade of pent up aggression on that bag, pounding it over and over and over.
Sweat pours down my face and my muscles burn from the unexpected exertion, but I don’t stop. I can’t. Not until I’ve thrashed every fucking demon with her name on it, with ungloved knuckles.
It takes at least twenty minutes of controlled violence to finally feel normal again.
I strip out of my clothes and step into the shower I had installed next to my office, then dress in fresh slacks and a cashmere turtleneck sweater. The offices are cooler than the main lounge and I want to be comfortable, because I’m going to be here for a while.
I lock the door to my office and head down the corridor to the control room—a space filled with screens showing live feeds from all the cameras we’ve installed throughout the club.
The guy on duty sits up straight when I enter. “Evening, sir.”
“Evening,” I clip, distracted. I search across the screens then I find it. The one trained on the host podium.
“Take the rest of the night off,” I say without looking at the guy.
“Oh, um sure. Thanks sir.”
I hear his chair scrape back but I can’t drag my eyes from the screen. She’s laughing now at something Hallie said. It lights up her whole face—no darkness anywhere in her features. That alone is disarming.
I sink into the armchair and settle down. “In fact,” I add. “Take off the next three nights—paid. I’ve got this covered.”
He freezes behind me. He’s right to question if he heard correctly. Monitoring screens is not the job of a don—a club owner. I have far more important things to do. But I don’t want to do them. I want to do this. I want to watch Pfeiffer McAllister become acquainted with my world.
“You’re welcome,” I finish, hoping he gets the message and fucks off.
“O-okay. Thanks boss.”
As soon as the door closes, I let out a long breath.
Finally, I can do exactly as I want for as long as I want to.
So, for the next three nights, I do it.
I watch.