“What is it?” she asks.
I don’t sugarcoat it.
“That club isn’t just a club,” I say. “The man who put his hands on you? Salazar Huntington. His family owns it. And two more across the county.”
Her grip tightens on the mug.
“And?”
“They move product. Quiet operation. Clean front.”
Her throat works when she swallows. “And now?”
“Now he’s embarrassed.”
Silence settles.
“And embarrassed men do stupid things,” she says, barely above a whisper.
“Yes.”
Color drains from her face.
“So I’m not safe.”
“You are,” I say immediately.
She looks up.
“Here. With me,” I add.
That lands between us.
“But not… anywhere else?”
“Not tonight. Tomorrow, we’ll see.”
Her fingers curl around the mug like it might crack.
“I should go home.”
“No.”
It comes out harder than I mean it to.
Her eyes widen.
I rein it in.
“Not tonight,” I say, voice steadier. “He didn’t get what he wanted.”
Her breath thins. “And what was that?”
“You.”
The air goes heavy.
“And I took you from him,” I continue. “In front of his people. In his club.”
