The club lights strobe across Gray’s face as he maneuvers me through the crowd, and I catch glimpses of his expression.Cold, determined, and furious beneath the control. My legs feel disconnected from my body, and I stumble against him more than once. Each time, his grip adjusts, supporting my weight without breaking stride.
“I’m not a fucking child,” I slur as we reach the dimly lit hallway leading to the exit. The music fades here, the air cooler against my flushed skin. “You can’t just drag me out whenever you feel like it.”
With a surge of drunk courage, I wrench my arm free and stumble backward, nearly falling before Gray’s hands shoot out and steady me. The sudden movement makes my head spin, and I lean heavily against the wall, breathing hard.
“We’re leaving,” he repeats, like I didn’t hear him the first time.
“No, we’re not.” I push off from the wall and try to move past him. “I’m going back to my friends.”
Gray moves faster than should be possible for someone his size. In one fluid motion, he blocks my path, then pushes me back against the wall, forearm across my chest. Not hard enough to hurt, but definitely hard enough to keep me in place.
I’ve never been this close to him before. Close enough to see the faint scar above his right eyebrow, the steel in his gray-blue eyes, the slight shadow of stubble along his jaw. He smells clean and masculine. No cologne, just…him.
“Your friends,” he says, the words low and controlled, “are about to do something that would get them arrested, and you along with them. Is that what you want?”
His face is inches from mine. I can feel his breath, count his eyelashes if I wanted to. My stomach flutters with somethingthat isn’t just fear, and I hate it. Hate how my body responds to the sheer physical power of him holding me in place like I weigh nothing.
“What I want is for you to back the fuck off. Don’t forget who works for whom. I could get you fired in no time.”
It’s a weak threat, and we both know it. But Gray’s expression darkens, something dangerous flashing in his eyes. For a second, I think he might hit me. Instead, he does something much worse.
Without warning, he releases my chest, bends, and hoists me over his shoulder in one smooth motion. The world flips upside down, blood rushing to my head as my stomach slams against his hard shoulder.
“What the—put me down!” I gasp, the air knocked from my lungs. My fists pound uselessly against his back. “Fucking put me down!”
He ignores me completely, striding through the exit doors and into the night. The cool air hits my overheated skin, making me shiver. Blood pounds in my ears, drowning out everything except the sound of Gray’s steady breathing and firm footsteps.
I’m helpless, suspended over his shoulder like a sack of groceries. My hands grasp at the fabric of his shirt, feeling muscle shift beneath it as he walks. The street spins around me, neon signs and passing headlights blurring together.
“I’ll fucking ruin you for this,” I growl.
Gray says nothing. He just keeps walking, his grip on my legs secure, his stride unfaltering.
My body goes slack. There’s no point fighting. He’s too strong, too determined. The rage inside me crystallizes into something colder.
So this is how it’s going to be. Fine.
I’ve never truly hated anyone before, but as Gray carries me through the parking lot, hatred blooms inside me, clear and pure. The alcohol in my system sharpens rather than dulls it. Every step he takes, every second of this humiliation, is being cataloged for payback.
“You have no idea what you’ve just done,” I say finally.
Gray’s stride doesn’t falter. “Save the threats for when you’re sober.”
I let out a hysterical laugh. He thinks this is just drunk talk. He doesn’t know what’s coming.
I’ll ruin him. Grayson Holt is as good as dead.
3
Gray
The alarm cuts through the darkness at 0500 sharp. I don’t hit snooze. Never do. My body is already halfway to vertical before my brain fully registers I’m awake. Old habits. Military precision. The apartment is cold. I keep it that way deliberately. My breath forms small clouds as I pull on running shorts and a thermal shirt. Outside, the city is still sleeping off its Friday night, which means the streets belong to people like me. People who understand discipline isn’t optional.
I hit the pavement hard, pushing through the first mile before my muscles fully wake up. Pain is just weakness leaving the body. At least that’s the bullshit we told ourselves during basic. Fourteen years later, and I still believe it. The rhythm of my feet against concrete drowns out everything else. No thoughts. No memories of last night. Just the burn in my lungs and the count in my head.
Eight miles later, I let myself back into my apartment, sweat-soaked despite the chill. The ice bath waits. I fill the tub with cold water and add twenty pounds of ice. It looks like torture to normal people. To me, it’s just Saturday.
I strip and lower myself in. The cold hits like a punch, stealing my breath. My skin screams. My muscles seize. I focus on my breathing and start the timer. Three minutes. No shortcuts.
