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“Of course,” I state, kissing her lips.
After a moment, she disappears, leaving me alone in the camera room.
I look at her through the monitor, realizing that whatever is weighing her down is too heavy for her.
She's been strange lately. I can tell and feel it, but I don't want to push her, leaving me constantly worried about her. Because I know that whatever is going on is something I can't help her with since she won't let me in.
Kristine blends into the crowd like a chameleon. I follow her as she starts dancing in the middle of the dance floor, noticing how her magnetic presence immediately attracts the gazes of the greediest. There are too many men who crave to possess her in the way that only I can.
“Keep an eye on the man in black and gray at the back of the bar,” I say through the earpiece to the guards. He hasn't taken his eyes off her since she started dancing.
“Do you want me to escort him out of the club, sir?”
“No. Just keep an eye on him.”
Because he's not the only one watching her. Many men follow her with their eyes and some even dare to talk to her, though Kristine turns them all away.
The thumping bass of the club's music sends vibrations through the floor, echoing the rhythm pounding in my chest. I lean against the cool glass of the control room, eyes fixed on Kristine as she navigates the sea of bodies on the dance floor.
The gold dress she wears clings to her like a second skin, shimmering with each movement as if she's a flame dancing in the dark—untouchable yet drawing everyone in.
I can't help but admire her grace, the way her body moves with a fluidity that belies the tension I know coils within her. She glides between groups, laughter spilling from her lips, but it doesn't reach those olive-green eyes—windows to a soul grappling with shadows I can't seem to chase away.
The camera feeds are my lifeline to her when I can't be by her side. Through them, I watch over her, my gaze sharpening as I catch sight of several men tracking her movements like predators.
“Watch yourself, Kristine,” I murmur, a futile warning she can't hear.
Their stares linger too long, intentions clear in their hungry eyes. It's a look I know all too well—the look of men who see something beautiful and think they have the right to claim it. But she isn't an object to be claimed, and the protective surge within me grows stronger.
Suddenly, one of the men breaks from the pack, his approach slow, deliberate. I'm on my feet in an instant, a low growl escaping my throat.
“Not on my watch,” I seethe, reaching for the radio clipped to my belt. “Vince, we have a situation on the dance floor. Kristine—she's about to have company.”
Vince's voice crackles through the radio, “On it, Mr. Callahan. Keep your eyes peeled, and I'll handle the rest.”
I want to go to the floor, to shadow her movements as her boyfriend—though we haven't exactly put a label on what we are—I feel a primal need to protect her. And as the man responsible for the safety of everyone here, it's my job to ensure that their lustful gazes don't become something more sinister.
Kristine doesn't see them. She's lost in the music, or maybe just lost. We've been together for over a month now, and while labels have never been important to me, I find myself craving one with her.
Not for any sense of ownership—it's not about that. It's about knowing that when she looks at me with those slightly sad eyes, she sees someone she can confide in. Someone she can trust.
My fingers twitch with the need to reach out to her, to pull her away from prying eyes and into my arms where I know she's safe. But she asked for space tonight, for a chance to forget whatever haunts her. And so I give it to her, even if every fiber of my being screams against it.
The weight of silence between us is a tangible thing—growing heavier with each day she keeps me at arm's length. Sitting on the sidelines isn't just frustrating, it's torture. Watching her hurt without being able to do anything is like a slow burn scorching through my chest.
A part of me wonders if this is how it starts—the slow unraveling of something good. But then I catch sight of her smile again—a real one this time—as she spins into a laughing group of women who welcome her into their circle. The joy might be fleeting, but it's there, and it fuels my resolve.
With every beat that echoes in this room and every pulse that races through me as I watch her, one thing becomes clearer: whatever we are or will be... Kristine Prescott is under my skin, woven into my very being in a way no one has ever been before.
And no matter what titles we might never use or secrets that lay buried in her heart, I'm here—for her, for Asher, for us—and nothing will change that.
After a while, she seems to get tired and goes to the bar for a drink. I examine her carefully, and I notice how a new man approaches her.
Only this time it's not an admirer, or at least not a direct one. Instead, I immediately spot the bodyguard of a special guest.
Unlike before, Kristine doesn't refuse the man's invitation. I see her smile and then follow him into the VIP room I reserve for the club's most prestigious guests.
What are you playing at?I think, following her footsteps as she walks up the stairs.
