“You sure about that? Because from where I’m standing,” he says, “you look ready. Bigger, too. Men would pay good money to watch what seven years did to you.”
A dark pulse moves through my blood. Violence answers before thought does. For one clean second I see my fist driving into his mouth. See that slow ugly smile split open. See blood on his teeth and that particular smugness finally wiped off his face for good.
Then I see the gate, the bars, and the cell.
“No.”
Griff steps closer. “That wasn’t a fucking request.”
Rainer comes through the workshop, eyes locked on Griff.
“Out,” Rainer says. “Get the fuck out of here before I throw you into the street myself.”
Griff turns his head slowly, taking Rainer in. Then he looks back at me as if Rainer isn’t worth a full turn of his neck. He backs toward the door, but his eyes stay on me the whole way. At the threshold, he stops. His finger lifts and points straight at me.
Then he is gone.
“Zane," Rainer says.
“I’m not going back.” The words come out certain because I mean them and I need him to know I mean them.
Rainer looks at me. His eyes move over my face and I let him look because I’ve got nothing to hide from this man. Not anymore.
He nods once. I can see he is worried about me. I catch it before he turns away. That small tightening around his mouth. The weight that settles into his shoulders as he goes back to the far side of the workshop.
Fuck me. I only got out yesterday and trouble was already waiting for me on the other side.
Chapter 4
Skylar
Damien paces the living room with his phone pressed to his ear.
I stand at the sink, rinsing dishes. Warm water runs over my fingers, turning my knuckles pink as steam curls around my face. The sponge glides over the plate, already clean, but I scrub it anyway. I rinse it, before stacking it carefully beside the others, edges aligned the way I like them. I reach for the next one.
Busy hands. A quiet mouth. That has become my specialty.
Damien paces from the couch to the window and back again—his bare feet making almost no sound on the heated tiles. But his irritation fills the apartment anyway. It doesn’t need sound. It seeps into the air like something that’s been building all morning, settling over the furniture, crawling along thepolished counters, pressing against the back of my neck until my shoulders draw up tight without my permission.
I keep scrubbing.
I should be listening. I know this because he’ll expect me to know what was said when he hangs up, the way he always does, that casual conversational test he runs to check whether I was paying attention.
It’s some client issue. A campaign that’s apparently imploded because someone somewhere made a decision without running it through Damien first and now the world is tilting off its axis and he is the only man with the particular skill set required to tilt it back. His voice rises and then drops—controlled even in frustration, smooth even when he’s furious.
Marketing manager. That’s his job.
That is what he tells people at dinner parties, with that clean white smile and the easy confidence of a man who has never once had to fight for a room’s attention because rooms concede it to him. He manages brands, campaigns, and perception. The careful architecture of how things look versus what they are.
Sometimes I think he manages me the same way he manages others. Positions me. Adjusts me. Makes sure I reflect well in the right light at the right moment and loud about the parts that don’t fit the picture.
I turn off the tap—the sudden silence at the sink making the rest of the apartment seem louder.
Damien’s voice drops into that smooth, particular tone he reserves for moments like this. The one that says I am being very reasonable and that you should feel grateful I haven’t stopped being reasonable yet.
“No, you listen to me. I don’t care what Derek said. Pull the assets, call Marcy, and tell her that if she wants to keep the account, she can stop sending me excuses dressed up as updates.”
I dry my hands with the towel and glance at him.
