“You agreed to be mine for this evening. Negotiation is subject to change at my discretion.” Arrogant. Absolute. Asshole.
The wrongness landed. Not only the words—ownership without care, without warmth, with none of the things she had from him.
The ring of spectators around them held their collective breath. A few other heads had turned, including, hopefully, Gray Jacket. Rhys didn’t dare break character to turn and find out. He flicked the whip again, elevating toimperiousasshole. Conversation ceased as the room tensed.
Good. Because that was when Gaby said clearly, without hesitation, “Red.”
A gasp rippled behind him. Waiting to see his reaction.
But even his persona had a line that couldn’t be crossed.
Rhys released the restraints. Crouching to free her ankles in a single practiced motion. Her wrists freed before the safeword had fully settled in the air.
No one stepped in. The lack of intervention, at minimum a check in on her status, made his stiff, jerky movements and his anger real.
Gaby pulled her dress up, a moment of difficulty as the zipper caught. But once she was covered, she turned. For one unguarded moment, he looked at her. He didn’t know what she saw. He knew what he felt—the wrongness of what he’d done to her, even scripted, even necessary, sitting in his chest like he’d swallowed wrong.
But he forced it down and stepped away, letting his expression do the rest—jaw clenched, tension in the set of his shoulders. It would read correctly in the room. That was the point of this, after all—to make her stand out.
Gaby didn’t look at him again. She moved away, chin level, shoulders straight. He tracked her progress through the crowd in his periphery while he gathered his things and gave the cross a quick wipe down.
Near the south corridor, Rafe had already shifted position. Invisible to the room, noticeable to Rhys.
Boone’s voice came low in his earpiece. “She’s at the bar stairs.”
Michael, closer to the exit: “Moving through the east floor. No contact.”
Rhys slung his bag over his shoulder and left the platform. He didn’t look at her, playing his role of disgruntled dom whose scene had gone sideways—which was true enough, only not in the way the room would see it.
He didn’t know if Gray Jacket had moved. Couldn’t look. Not yet.
Rafe: “She’s clear of the main floor.”
Boone: “Corridor. Moving well.”
At the bar, he ordered water and settled onto a stool. He scanned the area with the bored patience of a man recalibrating his evening. Except he was anything but. Alarm swept through him.
“Gray Jacket is on the move,” Rhys said behind his water bottle. “Who has eyes on him? Leland?”
“She’s out. Lot’s clear. Sweeping feeds for him now.”
Twenty seconds of nothing. Rhys counted every one of them, his heart pounding with each.
He was about to bolt for the door when Leland said, “Sweep complete. No Gray Jacket.”
“Damn,” Boone muttered. “Where could he have gone without us seeing him?”
“Someone get an ID on this guy,” Alec said, monitoring remotely.
Michael: “Checking sign-in now.”
“Gaby’s pulling out,” Leland announced. A pause. “She’s away. No tail.”
“I’m on her,” Rafe said. “Tracking on.”
Rhys didn’t breathe until he heard it. Even then, it wasn’t enough. With their suspect unaccounted for, every instinct shouted to abort, to go to her, to—
Callan cut in. “We’re tapped into their system. There are blind spots. I need a visual sweep.”
