Masden. Harris. Hale.
And behind them—Camden.
Calculating our worth with eyes that have destroyed careers over brandy.
“King.” Masden’s voice slides like oil. His gaze flicks to Tessa, lingering a beat too long on the curve of her neck. “Miss Whitmore.”
Tessa stiffens beside me, and I shift forward—just half a step, but enough. Enough to put my body between them and her. Enough to make the territorial message crystal clear: Look somewhere else.
Harris offers what he probably thinks is a smile. “We hope there won’t be… a repeat of this afternoon.”
“Of course not.” My voice could freeze blood. “Your chairs are safe.”
Masden’s jaw ticks. “So is your reputation—at least for now.”
The threat hangs between us. He’s reminding me that he could talk. Could paint me as unstable, and unfit for the position we’re all competing for.
Camden, always desperate to be included in tensions he doesn’t understand, raises his glass in a mock toast. “Nothing personal, King. We’ve all lost our tempers. Just… next time, maybe not on custom Italian leather.”
I don’t respond. I can’t. Because what I want to say would end with security escorting me out and Hale crossing my name off every list that matters. What I want to do involves my fist and Masden’s smug face and the satisfying crack of cartilage.
But I don’t move. I don’t blink. I simply hold Masden’s gaze until he looks away first.
Hale watches this entire exchange with the stillness of a predator deciding if we’re worth the energy. Her eyes move from me to Tessa—taking in our joined hands, and the protective angle of my body.
Then she nods, and walks away.
The moment they’re gone, Tessa spins toward me. “What did you do?”
“Nothing.”
“Rowan.”
The truth sits heavy on my tongue. That hearing them talk about her like she was a thing to be consumed made me see red. That the sound of Masden’s voice describing her body made my vision tunnel to a single point of rage. That I’d been one heartbeat away from doing something that would have destroyed everything I’ve worked for, and I hadn’t cared.
Not if it meant defending her.
“They made a comment,” I say finally, the words carefully measured. “I disagreed.”
“Define disagreed.”
I exhale through my nose. “There may have been a cigar. And a chair.”
Her mouth falls open, and heaven help me, it’s adorable. The shock in her eyes mixed with understanding, maybe. Or recognition. “You burned something?”
“I didn’t throw a Molotov cocktail, Whitmore. I just… redirected the end of a conversation.”
“Into leather upholstery?”
“It was already ugly.”
She makes a sound—half groan, half laugh. “You always did this. Every time someone so much as looked at me?—”
“They were doing more than just looking at you.” The words come out sharp and edged with the same possessive fury that made me grab that cigar.
Her expression softens, and I see the exact moment she understands. The moment she realizes this wasn’t about control or reputation. This was about her. About the way my blood still boils when someone treats her as less than she is.
“They were complimenting me, Rowan.”
