4

“All our friends are his friends. I have no one.”

“How lonely.”

I can’t look away from those hazel eyes of his. Why does it feel like he can see inside me? Like he can split open my head if he wants to and sift through my thoughts?

Do I even know his name?

“It is lonely…”

My eyes fall to his lips. I’ve never noticed lips on a man. But his are… they’re so…

“Willow Reeves?”

The door to the private room opens, and I jump to my feet. I turn to the door to find the maître d’ standing there with barely controlled rage on his face.

I’m guessing that control is for the guest’s benefit. It certainly is not for mine.

“Please excuse me, Mr. Solovev,” he grimaces. “I’m going to need your waitress for a moment.”

Solovev. The name has an Eastern European tang to it. Russian, maybe?

I don’t wait for anyone to say another word. I mumble a hasty apology and walk straight for the door with my face on fire.

In some ways, I’m grateful for the distraction. I felt like I was being drugged in there. Tip-toeing closer and closer to—well, I’m not quite sure where I would have ended up.

But nowhere good.

That gratitude vanishes as soon as I step out into the hallway and someone steps forward out of the shadows. My body goes cold with dread.

It’s Casey.

3

LEO

Willow is just outside the VIP room, so her voice carries through the crack in the door. I don’t even have to get out of my seat to eavesdrop.

Not that it matters. I already know everything there is to know about Willow Reeves.

“What are you doing here?” Willow sounds scared.

“What the fuck do you mean?” he growls. “I called you like a dozen times.”

“And I texted you back. I’m working, Casey. You promised you’d give me space.”

“Fuck that. I’m sick of this phase of yours—”

“It’s not a phase!”

I’m impressed she’s fighting back. She didn’t strike me as the type—but then, no one really fights back against me. No one who lives to tell about it, anyway.

“Listen,” the maître d’ interjects, “I really don’t need the drama here. If you can’t leave your baggage at home, then you can turn in your apron right—”

“No, I can finish my shift. Please,” Willow begs. “Don’t fire me.”

The man—Casey—snorts. “Jesus Christ. Getting fired would be the best thing for you right now.”

“You mean the best thing for you,” she snaps.

“If I can interrupt for a moment…” The maître d’s voice drips with acid.

“No, you may not,” the intrusive douche bag retorts. There’s haughtiness in his voice. Entitlement.

Perhaps someone ought to rid him of that.

Someone like me.

They shift, and through a sliver in the door, I see the asshole hand the maître d’ a crisp hundred dollar bill. “Give us a minute,” he says.

“Of course, sir.” The maître d’ slips out of sight.

Willow stiffens the moment they’re alone. As though the absence of a third party makes her feel far more vulnerable.

“Casey, please,” she says. “I need to do this.”

“Why?” he demands. “I’ve put a roof over your head. I’ve given you the clothes on your back. Everything you fucking need, I’ve given you.”

“And you love reminding me of that,” she cries out. “Well, I’m done being the doormat wife. I want my own life!”

So this is the husband. Interesting.

The purpling of rage on his face says he’s long past using his words. Instead, with a practiced motion, he grabs Willow’s wrists and shakes her like a ragdoll.

“Why?” he growls. “So you can leave me?”

“I’d like to have the option,” she spits right back.

There’s fire in her tone and in her face. It makes me wonder how a woman like her ever convinced herself to slum it with this repulsive son of a bitch.

She deserves better.

She deserves me.

“It doesn’t matter how much fucking money you have, you little bitch,” he snarls right in her face. “You’re never leaving me. I’m sick and tired of this Miss Independent bullshit. When I get home, I expect you to be there to greet me.”

“Should I greet you the same way you greeted me?” she asks. “By fucking someone else on our bed?”

That does the trick. He rears back and slaps the shit out of her.

Time for me to step in.

I kick the door of the VIP room open. It slams against the wall, sending shockwaves reverberating all around us.

The motherfucking wifebeater turns to me with wide eyes. Willow is staring at me, too, looking completely mortified.

“I… I’m so sorry, Mr. Solovev,” she stammers, grasping for the appropriate tone of voice. “We didn’t mean to disturb you.”

“You didn’t.” I turn my eyes on the asshole. “He did.”

Willow’s husband blinks in stupefied confusion. He’s not used to being talked down to. It’s clear from the greasy pomade of his raked-back hair to the unbuttoned top of his expensive shirt: he thinks he runs shit.

And hell, maybe in his world, he does. Maybe he has secretaries fawning all over him and rivals fuming every time he wins a business deal from right out under their noses.

But what he doesn’t know is that he’s not in his world anymore.

He’s in mine.

And here, he’s nothing more than a cockroach under my heel.

“Who the fuck are you?” he balks.

“Casey!” Willow exclaims. Her cheeks are red with shame. “I’m sorry, Mr. Solovev. We’ll take this conversation somewhere else.”

My cock hardens every time she says my name. I could get used to that. I will get used to that.

“I don’t think so,” I tell her. “I think your conversation is over.”

The fucker narrows his eyes at me and puffs himself up to his full height. He’s reasonably tall, at least six feet. But he’s still craning his neck upwards to meet my gaze.

“Over?” he repeats, trying to sound intimidating. “She is my goddamn wife, and you are—I don’t even know who the hell you are. I’ll decide when our conversation is over.”

I take a step forward. Casey retreats immediately, instinctively. His body knows what his brain is too slow to grasp just yet—this is not a fight he can win.

“I don’t give a fuck who she is to you, mudak,” I breathe. “I expect my waitress back in that room in two minutes.”

“Not gonna fucking happen, man.”

I move so fast that there’s nothing he can do to stop me. I grab the front of his shirt and throw him against the wall.

“Let me go!” he cries. “Are you fucking crazy? My lawyers will—”

“She’s not going anywhere with you tonight.”

“Motherfucker, I’m her husband!”

“So you keep saying,” I drawl in a bored voice. “Ask me if I give a fuck. Now, I think it’s time for you to leave.”

He’s still choking and spasming in my grasp. “I’m not leaving without Willow.”

I jerk him hard and the back of his head clacks against the cold wall. He cries out in pain.

“I’m going to give you one more warning,” I snarl in his face. “After that, I’m done being nice.”

I can feel Willow’s eyes on me, watching my every move, drinking me in. She doesn’t seem bothered. Like the violence of men is nothing new to her.

“Who the hell are you?” the fucker rasps.

Ah, there we go. He’s finally starting to glom onto the fact that maybe he shouldn’t be messing around with a guy like me.

My answer is simple: “The kind of man who can get away with anything.”

I release him a second later and step back. Casey’s expression is conflicted. He’s clearly trying to decide if this is a battle worth fighting.

If he’s smart, he’ll run for the fucking hills. Something tells me he’s not that smart, though.

His eyes flit to Willow. But when his shoulders hunch, I know I’ve won.

“You should go now,” I say.

Just then, the staff door opens again and the sour-faced maître d’ walks back out. He takes one look at me and stands up a little straighter.

“Mr. Solovev, I do hope this little scuffle didn’t disturb you and your friends. Rest assured I’m taking care of it. The young woman will be removed and—”

“I expect her to be my waitress for the rest of the night,” I interrupt. “Just her. Is that understood?”

He pales and swallows past the knot in his throat. “Oh, of course, sir. Of course.”

I turn to Casey, who for some godforsaken reason is still standing in the mouth of the hallway. “Shouldn’t you be on your way?”

I don’t wait around to see him leave. I open the door for Willow. After some hesitation, she slips into the VIP room with a single, tentative backward glance. I take an inordinate amount of pleasure in slamming the door closed behind us.

I head back over to the sofa and take a sip of my vodka.

“Now,” I say coolly, “where were we?”