Page 56 of Spock’s Snare

“Your motorcycle club owns one of the most exclusive restaurants in Las Vegas,” she says. “A restaurant named after the hound guarding the entrance to the underworld.”

“They let Puma pick the name.”

She chuckles. “I guess I should have put that together sooner.”

The hostess looks up from her podium and smiles in recognition. “Good evening, Spock. Your usual table is ready.”

Chloe arches an eyebrow. “Your usual table?”

I place my hand against the small of her back and guide her deeper into the restaurant.

“I told you getting a reservation was easy.”

She laughs softly as she walks beside me, and every set of male eyes that drifts toward her makes my possessive instincts tighten. I draw her a little closer, letting everyone watching her know that she’s with me.

The restaurant might belong to the Demon Dawgs, but tonight, my attention belongs entirely to Chloe.

CHAPTER TWENTY: CHLOE

Spock draws out my chair, waiting until I gather the skirt of my dress and settle onto the plush seat before he takes the chair across from me.

The gesture shouldn’t surprise me. Beneath the leather vest, intimidating muscles, and dangerous reputation, Spock has a considerate streak he tries to keep hidden. It appears in little moments—helping me off his bike, keeping his hand at the small of my back as we move through the crowded restaurant, making sure I’m comfortable before he sits.

I glance around Cerebus again, taking in details I missed when we first entered. The dining room is sophisticated and alluring. Dark wood panels line the walls, broken by flickering amber sconces that cast soft pools of light over the tables. Black marble gleams beneath my feet, threaded with veins of gold that match the fixtures hanging overhead. Deep-red velvet booths curve around intimate tables, offering privacy while still allowing diners to see and be seen.

The room hums with quiet conversation and the delicate clink of crystal and silverware. Everything about the place whispers wealth and exclusivity.

My gaze returns to Spock. He looks completely at ease, as though dining in one of the hottest restaurants inside one of the most popular casinos in Las Vegas is an everyday occurrence for him.

Maybe it is.

“Do the Demon Dawgs really own this restaurant?” I ask, still struggling to wrap my mind around the idea.

His mouth tips into the smirk that always makes something warm unfurl low in my stomach. “We do.”

“How?” I gesture toward the packed dining room. “Cerebus is nearly impossible to get into. People wait months for a reservation. How did an MC manage to buy one of the hottest restaurants near 1%?”

His looks at me in confusion.

“We own 1%. You didn’t know?”

For several seconds, I can only stare at him.

“The Demon Dawgs own 1%?”

“The majority of it.”

I blink, certain I must have misheard him. “You own the majority of one of the most popular casinos in Las Vegas?”

“That’s what I said.”

He delivers the statement with maddening calm, as though he’s telling me the club owns a neighborhood bar rather than a massive luxury casino on the Strip.

A server approaches and pours water into our glasses before silently withdrawing. Spock waits until the man is out of earshot before leaning back in his chair.

“1% was Puma’s brainchild,” he explains. “When he became president, he decided the club needed to make money legally. He wanted businesses that would protect the club’s future and give the brothers a legitimate income.”

“And he chose a casino?”