"Oh, I will. With pleasure. And with her."
"She's not going anywhere. We have plans." He stands now, trying to match Drogo's height. Fails. Drogo is six foot five. "She owes me—"
"She owes you nothing," Drogo cuts in, voice dropping to something dangerous.
My date's eyes flick between us. Then he lets out a sharp laugh. "Oh, I get it. You're her pet, right? The one who comes running when she calls?"
Drogo goes very still. The kind of still that makes the air feel thin.
I've seen him like this before—right before someone learned why underground fighters don't last long against him.
"Drogo..." I whisper, trying to pull him back from whatever edge he's standing on.
His hands are sudden—firm around my waist. He lifts me up from the chair like I weigh nothing, spinning me to face him. His hands span my waist, fingers pressing hard enough that I'll feel them tomorrow.
He pulls me close—not flush against him, but close enough that I have to tilt my head back to meet his eyes.
"Don't Drogo me." His voice is low, rough. A warning and a promise wrapped in one.
I'm caught between them now—Drogo's solid presence against me, my date's shocked face in front. Drogo's hands don't move from my waist. Proprietary. Protective.
"I'll wait outside," I whisper, because if I stay here one more second, I'll do something stupid.
"As you should."
He releases me, and I slip away before either of them can say another word.
• • •
I slip out into the night before I do something stupid—like beg him to finish what he started.
The night is cold, and I'm just in a dress. I'm not sure how long this stubborn little bravado can hold out, but I already feel my ears turning red from the chill.
A group of men passes by, smoking.
"Sorry, could I borrow a cigarette?" I ask.
"Yes, love," one says, giving me a once-over like I'm a prize. Fair enough.
After four failed attempts fighting the wind to light it, they disappear into the night. That first drag hits like heaven. I'd quit smoking a month ago because Drogo insisted, but watching those guys puff away stirred something in me—a jealous itch for a passion I wasn't supposed to have anymore. What can I say? I'm a woman of my desires.
The second drag is always better, the nicotine sweet and slow as it fills my lungs.
The wind shifts, and for a second, I swear I hear whispering from the alley shadows. Not the men who just left. Something else. I take another drag to steady myself.
Then a hand slips in from behind, snatching the cigarette away before I can savor more.
Drogo.
Finished with his opponent, he appears like a threat wrapped in Armani—tall, dark, every step saying the room is his if he decides to take it. He takes a long, slow drag, those cold blue eyes locking on mine, and then flicks the cigarette to the ground.
He steps closer, crowding me against the car door, the heat of him cutting through the cold night.
"Bad for you," he says, voice low, like he isn't talking about the cigarette at all. His voice is low, rough, like gravel and smoke, and it slides straight between my legs.
"Get in the car, Alena."
• • •
