I shuddered and turned to see who it was.
"Miss Holt," the man murmured, just above a whisper. He was Ronan's companion. Nothing about him was memorable. Just another bleak suit. "There's someone who needs a word with you."
I tried to pull away, but his grip was absolute—gentle, but insistent, like gravity. I looked up, and the only thing I saw was the way his lips barely moved when he spoke.
"Let's not make a scene."
He steered me away from the column, away from the lights and noise, down a side hallway I hadn't noticed before. The transition was instant—from the gold-and-marble opulence to a narrow, windowless corridor where the music and laughter thinned out to a dull smear.
I tried to keep my voice steady. "I really can't leave my table?—"
He cut me off with a tiny shake of his head. "It won't take long."
I could've screamed. But the hallway was empty. I catalogued the way his fingers pressed into my arm—just enough to say you belong to me for the next thirty seconds. We rounded a corner, past a janitor's closet, and stopped by the restroom sign.
Ronan Wick stood there.
The grasp on my arm loosened.
"Kimberly," Ronan said, voice low and fake-friendly. "What a surprise to see you here."
"What do you want?" I blurted out.
Ronan's toothy smile dropped. He stepped forward, pressed his handagainst my shoulder, and pushed me to the wall. I had no time to react. My newly obtained self-defense knowledge failed me.
He leaned in and hissed out, "We were clear about the terms, weren't we? You keep to yourself. Don't show up at events like this." He took one more step, his jacket brushed against my dress, and my stomach churned. "Or did you forget?"
"I'm working tonight," I said flatly, trying to keep calm. "If I knew you'd be here, I wouldn't have come. So just deal with it for one evening, okay?"
He shook his head and made a tsking sound. "That's not going to work, Kimmy." He reached out, aiming for my strand of hair. I jerked my head to the side, and his hand just grazed my cheek.
"Don't touch me," I hissed.
"That's not what you said when I fucked that tight little cunt of yours, sweetheart," he said as he stared at me for a long, dark second.
My stomach entered full riot mode from disgust and nausea.
"What? Cat's got your tongue, baby?" he added with a flash of a fake smile before his voice returned to its nasty growl. "You should have stayed home."
The man in the suit—the one who'd dragged me here—remained at his side. I was boxed in, with nowhere to move but forward or into the wall. And last I checked people couldn't walk through brick and wood.
"You better listen if you want to keep living your quiet little life," Ronan went on, making another attempt to grab my hair.
I wanted to spit in his face. Instead, I raised my hand, palm open, and knocked his fingers away.
He blinked, clearly stunned. Then he grabbed my chin with force that bordered on harm. My mouth fell open from the pressure. Instinctively, I clawed at his wrist with both hands trying to wrestle his fingers away from me.
"You weren't this interesting when we banged you." He laughed like a maniac.
The world narrowed to just his grip, his insult, and the sound of my shallow breath. I counted the seconds. One, two, three…
A sound came from around the corner. The squeak of wheels. I couldn't physically turn my head, but from the corner of my eye, I saw a member of staff in all black, heavy duty boots, head slightly down, eyes shaded by messy hair, and chin covered by a trimmed beard. He pushed a utility cart loaded with empty glasses and linen napkins. He moved just fast enough to be inconvenient.
He came right up to us, didn't even slow down. The cart must have clipped Ronan because he swore and let go of my face.
At first, I thought I imagined it—the man giving me a tiny, almost invisible nod.
To Ronan, he said, "Sorry, sir." His voice wasn't even a little bit apologetic. He started to move the cart, suddenly patting Ronan's pants as if to remove some invisible mess he'd left, but Ronan's sidekick in a suit put a hand on the handle of the cart and said something.
