Not directed at me.
At whoever had put that fear there in the first place.
"Lunch," he said softly, voice dropping to something lethal and immovable, "isn't optional."
The gentleness made it worse somehow. Made the command feel less like control and more like protection—the kind I'd been denying myself because accepting it meant admitting I needed him.
That I was vulnerable.
That two men in a car had reduced me to prey without even touching me.
For a moment—just one fractured, terrible moment—I stopped fighting. Stopped resisting. Stopped pretending I had any armor left that could protect me from whatever was closing in.
I nodded once.
Barely.
Enough.
He moved toward the back office without hesitation, grabbing my coat from the hook and returning with it draped over his arm. Not throwing it at me. Not demanding I hurry. Just… helping me into it with careful precision, hands settling briefly on my shoulders before falling away.
The touch steadied something inside me I hadn't realized was shaking.
And that terrified me more than anything.
Because being near him—accepting his protection, his presence, his overwhelming certainty that he could keep me safe—felt infinitely more dangerous than facing down loan sharks alone ever could.
Chapter 22
Gideon
The restaurant sat right on the water—glass walls overlooking the lake, exposed beams crossing a vaulted ceiling, tables scattered across polished concrete floors. Minimalist. Expensive. The kind of place that catered to people who had money and wanted everyone to know it without screaming the fact.
I'd been here before. Team dinners. Sponsor events. The usual obligations that came with wearing the crest.
But I'd never brought anyone.
The hostess looked up the moment we walked through the door, and her entire face transformed—eyes widening, posture straightening, smile blooming bright and eager.
NHL star.
Local celebrity.
Walking danger wrapped in a hoodie and dark joggers.
She knew exactly who I was.
"Mr. Jones," she breathed, already reaching for menus. "We're so honored?—"
I didn't look at her.
Not once.
My hand settled at Belle's back, firm and possessive, fingers splayed across the curve of her spine as I kept her moving forward. I felt her stiffen beneath my palm, felt the instinctive resistance ripple through her body, but she didn't pull away.
The hostess gestured toward a table near the windows—two chairs positioned across from each other with careful, calculated distance between them. Polite seating. Strangers sharing a meal.
Absolutely not.
