“Okay—?” My jaw clenched, and I suddenly was hot, nauseous, and slightly perturbed. Ahh—yes, the familiar stress response I’d get when Mom insisted I change my clothes because pentagram necklaces and dark eyeliner weren’t “Christian” enough for her.
“Oh—andmo chróí…” Hunter gestured to my face. “Fix your mouth… you’ve messed up your lipstick.”
I pulled out my phone and flipped on the selfie camera with a hasty swipe.
Shit!
When the time came, I slipped on a practiced smile and followed Hunter onto the stage. The lights were too bright, too warm—pressing in, demanding a performance—but I didn’t have one. My spine held straight, breaths even.
Controlled.
My gaze skimmed the front tables, over polished porn stars and camera-ready smiles, all of them waiting for their names to be called like itactuallymeant something other than they looked great while they fucked.
Graham had reappeared at the table, all easy posture and careless charm, like I hadn’t just dry humped his thigh in a back alley. He nodded along to something Katie was saying, glass tipped lazily in his hand, but his focus never wavered.
It was still on me.
That look hadn’t softened. If anything, it settled deeper into a quieter, heavier smolder that was waiting for the tiniest spark to ignite. It wasn’t a look of hunger. No… something slower than that. Patience. Like he already knew how this ended, because he was the wolf watching its prey after a long, frigid winter… and I was the only thing he wanted.
My fingers tightened around the envelope as I jerked my attention back to Hunter, now at the podium waiting for the nominees.
Deep breath.
Focus, Maggie.
I barely had time to step forward before my toe snagged the hem of my dress.
My ankle rolled, and I went down hard.
The stage lights flared white, blinding. All eyes on me. Pain shot up my leg, bright and immediate, humiliation burned hotter than both—searing straight through my chest as the room tilted.
A chair scraped back hard enough to turn heads.
A ripple moved through the crowd. Graham, already shoving past tables toward the stage.
Then Hunter’s hand was on my arm, dragging me upright while the other ripped the envelope from my grip like it was the only thing that mattered. He didn’t hesitate—already turning, already moving back to the podium.
Of course he was.
I barely had time to steady myself before I felt it?—
Graham.
He took the steps two at a time, eyes locked on me like the rest of the room didn’t exist.
“You okay?” His voice cut through everything—low, focused, entirely too close for only a bodyguard.
“Yeah…” I tried to put weight on my ankle—pain lanced up my leg, sharp enough to steal my breath. “Ow! I don’t think I can walk right now.”
He didn’t say anything—just tucked his arm around my waist and scooped me up like I weighed nothing.
It wasn’t a question.
The room tilted again as my feet left the floor, one arm braced around his shoulders, the other instinctively gripping his jacket. Heat bled through the fabric, steady, grounding, as he carried me off the stage and out of the lights.
Hunter’s voice followed us—smooth and effortless over the mic.
“…occupational hazard—heels higher than brains.”
