Sutton chuckles. She went to school with Oliver and knows all too well why we don’t ‘get along’ as my father puts it. He’s an opportunist like his father. One of the reasons my father hasn’t been willing to do much business with them. They’d sell us out to the highest bidder if one ever came along.
My father keeps talking, something about new investments, but I don’t hear a fucking word. All I hear is Peyton’s shallow breaths, feel the tremor in her back under my hand. She doesn’t like the attention, doesn’t like being on display, and yet she’s standing here in this goddam dress like temptation incarnate. My temptation. A siren sent to drag me to the depths.
Peyton shifts her weight, a subtle lean away from me, but it’s enough to ignite my temper. I drop my mouth close to her ear. Letting my breath skim her skin.
“Careful, darlin’,” I murmur low enough for only her to hear. “You pull away from me again and I’ll make sure every bastard in this room knows who you belong to.”
Her sharp inhale tells me she hears the warning for what it is—a promise wrapped in a threat.
“You made it very clear I don’t belong to you.” She tilts her chin, trying to hold her ground, those eyes sparking with defiance when she looks up at me. That look should piss me off. Instead, it makes my cock twist against the restraints of my slacks.
“Colter.” My father’s voice cuts back through the haze. His gaze drops to my hand on Peyton’s bare back, then lifts with a silent challenge. He wants me to let go. To behave.
Not happening.
I drag my thumb in a slow, possessive stroke across her spine before finally lifting my hand and reaching for another whiskey from a passing tray. Peyton exhales like she’s been holding her breath for hours, but she doesn’t step away. Smart girl.
Sutton, bless her nosy heart, clears her throat. “Well, if you ask me, Peyton looks positively stunning tonight. That color suits her beautifully.”
“It does,” I say, never taking my eyes off her. “Too well.”
Her cheeks flush, pink dusting over her skin, and I know I’ve embarrassed her. Good. She should feel every ounce of heat I do.
Sutton’s grin is all too knowing. My father, on the other hand, shakes his head like I’m a lost cause, muttering something about handling myself better in public.
Fuck public. This isn’t for show. This is survival.
I lean down again, this time brushing my lips against the shell of Peyton’s ear, my voice a razor meant only for her.
“We’re going to talk. Soon. Don’t bother running from me again, Peyton. I’ll find you.”
Her shiver betrays her before she can mask it, and that small crack in her armor feeds the monster inside of me.
I force myself to smile, though it feels like my jaw might crack with the effort. My father’s warning gaze lingers, but I don’t look away. If I give him an inch, he’ll take a mile, parade Peytonaround like a prize to be auctioned off to the highest bidder. And the thought alone nearly shreds my restraint.
Peyton shifts beside me subtly, a restless movement that makes my hand flex against her back. She doesn’t want me here. Doesn’t want my touch staking a claim she refuses to acknowledge. But I don’t remove it. I can’t. The crowd presses closer, champagne glasses clinking, laughter echoing too loud in this over-decorated mausoleum of a ballroom, and all I can think about is how many of these men are watching her. How many of them are imagining her bent over a silk-sheeted bed, dressed hitched to her waist, her mouth gasping their names?
My stomach knots so violently have to swallow against it. NO one here will ever know what she sounds like when she breathes my name. No one here will ever taste the sweetness on her lips.
“Colter,” my father says again, sharper this time, dragging me back to the conversation I didn’t realize I’d abandoned. “Oliver was telling us about his new project downtown. He could use our support.”
Of course he could. He’s always needing, always taking. A leech in cufflinks.
“Sounds like a gamble,” I say smoothly, though my grip on Peyton doesn’t loosen. I feel her stiffen at my tone, at the razor edge in it. She glances up at me, wide-eyed, as if silently warning me not to make a scene. That look alone is enough to douse the gasoline sloshing inside my chest—barely.
My thumb strokes once over the curve of her spine, grounding me. Reminding me she’s here. Breathing. Untouched—for now.
Oliver clears his throat. “It’s an opportunity, not a gamble. Of course, Peyton, you should come by sometime. I’d be happy to give you the personal tour.”
The words slice through me like barbed wire. I see red again, that vision of gutting him crawling up my throat. My father’s eyes sharpen, waiting to see what I’ll do.
I hold back. Barely.
With a slow smile I tilt my head, keeping my voice low, casual, almost amused. “You’ve got enough on your plate, Maine. Best not to bite off more than you can chew.”
The implication lands. His throat works as he swallows, and the grin slides off his face. Good.
Peyton exhales beside me, so softly I almost miss it. But I feel it. The flutter of her chest against my arm. The shift of her body leaning slightly away, as if she can sense the leash straining, the beast pacing behind it.
