Inside, the Frost & Flame is exactly what it looks like. A club full of dark wood, darker leather, and low lighting that makes everyone look better than they are. The bar runs the length of the east wall, bottles backlit like a church altar. The main floor's half-full even on a Wednesday, bodies moving to music that's too loud for conversation but perfect for forgetting.
My reputation in this town has only increased business. Wintervale regulars and tourists looking for an “experience” hear that this is the place to be, so they come. A few heads turn when we walk in. Not many. The kind of people who come to my club have learned not to stare at things that don't concern them. Most of them don’t care anyway. If I’ve done my job right, most of them are drunk and possibly high.
The bartender—Marcus, sixty, former boxer who took too many hits and now pours drinks with hands that shake just enough to notice—catches my eye and nods toward the stairs.
Someone's waiting.
Of course they are.
I avoid staring at Peyton’s spectacular ass as I guide her through the crowd, one hand at the small of her back. Not possessive but protective. There's a difference, and I need her to know it.
She doesn't pull away.
We climb the back stairs to the second floor, where my office sits overlooking the main room through one-way glass. I can see everything. They can't see me.
Control. The only currency that matters.
I unlock the door, let her in first, then lock it behind us.
The office is sparse. Desk. Chair. A leather couch that’s seen better days. A wall of filing cabinets I haven't opened in months, because who deals with actual paper anymore? No personal photos, no decorations, nothing that says who I am beyond the man who owns the building and signs the paychecks.
Peyton walks to the glass and looks down at the crowd below. “Are you here often?”
“When I’m in town.”
“And you spend your time in here watching them?”
“I watch everything."
"That sounds exhausting."
"It's survival."
She turns, leans against the glass with her arms crossed. The position does things to the dress that I shouldn't notice and can't ignore. Curves and shadows and danger wrapped in crimson lace and silk.
"So." Her voice is steady, challenging. "Now what? You've got me alone in a soundproofed room. You've told me I'm worth killing for. You've introduced me to your sister and given me my dead mother's research. What's our next move, Blake Delano?"
Good question.
The smart move is distance. Keep this professional. Guard the asset, navigate the politics, deliver her to whatever outcome keeps her breathing and my conscience clean.
The real move, the one my body's voting for despite my brain's objections, is to close the space between us and find out if she tastes as dangerous as she looks.
I do neither.
Instead, I move to the desk, pull out a bottle of scotch I keep for nights when memory gets too loud. Pour two glasses. Offer her one.
She takes it, our fingers brushing. The contact's brief, electric, the kind of touch that shouldn't mean anything and means every fucking thing.
"We wait until we know for sure,” I say. "Talia will dig deeper into the Kingsley documents. I'll make calls, cash in favors, find out who else knows about the clause and what they're planning. You'll stay here where Silas can't get to you easily."
"I'm staying here?" She raises an eyebrow. "In your club?"
"In my apartment. Upstairs. Separate entrance, separate space. You'll be safe."
"Safe." She tastes the word like it's foreign. "I haven't been safe since my mother died. Maybe not even before that."
"Then you'll be safer. That's the best I can offer."
