Chace’s head lifts at once, his posture shifting with a subtle alertness that doesn’t go unnoticed.
The doors nearly seal—and then a slender, golden, manicured hand shoots between them.
The sensors catch it, and the doors slide back open.
She stumbles inside.
Her cheerleader uniform is pristine, her hair still perfectly arranged as though nothing in her world is out of place, yet tears streak down her face in helpless contrast. Mascara tracks her cheeks, and on the left side of her face, blooming vividly against sun kissed skin, is a handprint so fresh it still looks hot.
She doesn’t look up. She doesn’t register us. She is too consumed by whatever storm she’s walked out of to realize the lift was occupied, most likely.
Chace moves before thought has time to catch up.
He catches her wrist mid-stride and pivots her in one fluid motion, pressing her back against the mirrored wall with a control that is neither reckless nor hesitant. His body closes the distance instantly, crowding hers without touching anywhere unnecessary, creating a barrier rather than a threat.
His free hand comes up, fingers firm but deliberate as he takes her chin and turns her face slowly from side to side, examining the damage with an intensity that makes the air feel thinner.
She gasps when she finally sees him.
“Valentino,” she whispers, shock overtaking her grief as her eyes widen and her complexion drains of color.
The temperature in the lift seems to drop several degrees.
“Who did this to you?” His voice is low and measured, which makes it infinitely more dangerous than if he had shouted.
He releases her chin, yet his knuckles brush lightly along the reddened skin as though memorizing the mark, committing it to something internal and irreversible.
Her eyes close as fresh tears spill over.
Chace’s jaw tightens visibly, tension rippling through his frame in a way I have rarely seen.
“I asked you a question, Anastasia.” He growls, turns abruptly and slams his palm against the emergency stop button, and the lift shudders to a halt between floors. A ringing chimes out, a voice immediately crackles through a speaker asking for the nature of the emergency stop. One of the large, dangerous men I don’t recognize starts speaking in short-clipped words. I pull-in Sera, who is staring earnestly at the upset girl.
He hooks a knuckle beneath her chin again, lifting her face until she is forced to meet his eyes.
“Tell. Me.”
Damn, Chace, you’re making my stomach flip with that growl…
I lean in and press a kiss to the top of Sera’s head. She sighs, melting into me.
Begone, confusing dom-daddy thoughts.
The command is quiet.
I watch in silence, genuinely unsettled, because I cannot recall a single moment where I have seen Chace this close to losing composure. Not over business. Not over blood. Not over anything.
“It… it was my fault,” she manages, her voice shaking. “My father asked to see me and my sister, she— I don’t know.”
If you think it was your fault, it almost never is. Just excuses for stupid motherfuckers and their own issues…
Christ, I’m glad we punched our dad in the fucking head. Bam. Fuck you. Fucking—
Sera goes still, and it hits me—I’m not the only one carrying a history full of fucked-up family.
The girl, Ana something or other, hand lifts instinctively toward her cheek, as though only now feeling the full sting of the mark.
” You’re safe now.” Sera says. “Chace is—”
