Chapter 7: The Entrance That Silenced the Room

"Isabella is not easy to impress," Rowan said as the car pulled into the underground garage of an exclusive club. "Do not let her see you sweat."

"I never sweat," I said.

He looked at me. That small, dangerous smile again. "You are sweating right now."

I wiped my palms on the black dress. He was right. I hated that he was right.

The club was called Onyx. The name was carved into the wall in letters that looked like they had been burned there. Two men in dark suits opened the doors before we reached them. They did not look at my face. They looked at Rowan's.

Inside, the music was low and heavy. Red light bled across the floor. Women in silk dresses clung to men in expensive suits. Everyone was beautiful. Everyone was dangerous.

And then Rowan walked in with his hand on the small of my back, and the room went silent.

Not a single chair scraped. Not a single glass clinked. Every head turned. Every eye followed. The women looked at me with open jealousy. The men looked at me with something colder. Calculation.

So this is what it feels like to be a target.

"Breathe," Rowan murmured against my ear. His breath was warm. His fingers pressed into my spine, just enough to remind me he was there. "You are doing fine."

"I feel like a lamb in a slaughterhouse."

"Then stop looking like one."

I lifted my chin. I fixed my face into something cold and untouchable. The way I used to look at Devon when he begged me to forgive him.

Rowan's grip on my back loosened. Approval. The barest hint of it.

A woman rose from a booth in the back. Black hair. Sharp eyes. A mouth that looked like it had never learned to smile politely.

Isabella.

She walked toward us slowly, her heels clicking like small gunshots. She stopped in front of me and looked me up and down. Then she looked at her brother.

"This is her," she said. Not a question.

"This is her," Rowan confirmed.

Isabella laughed. It was not a warm sound. "You married a Cross. Of all the women in this city, you married a Cross."

"I did."

"Grandmother will be delighted."

"Grandmother can be delighted from a distance."

Isabella turned back to me. Her eyes narrowed. "You do not look like a woman who planned this. You look like a woman who got caught."

My face burned. "Maybe I did."

"Honest." She tilted her head. "I was expecting tears. Or fainting. Girls usually faint around my brother."

"I am not usually a girl."

Something flickered in her eyes. Amusement, maybe. Or respect. She turned to Rowan. "I like her. That is unfortunate for both of you."

"Meaning?"

"Meaning Vincent already knows." Her voice dropped. "He knows you took a wife. And he knows who her father is."

The air changed. Rowan's body went still beside me, so still that I could feel the violence coiled inside him.

"Who told him?"

"I am working on it." Isabella's eyes slid to me. "But you should know something, Mrs. Morphy. Your father called Vincent Moretti two hours ago. He offered him a deal."

My stomach dropped. "What kind of deal?"

"The kind that ends with you back in your family house and my brother dead."

I could not breathe. My father. My own father had—

"Enough," Rowan said. His voice was calm. Too calm. He took my arm. "We are leaving."

"Rowan—"

"Not here."

He pulled me through the club. The music swelled behind us. The eyes followed us. I stumbled once, and he caught me without breaking stride, his arm banding around my waist and hauling me against his side.

The car door slammed. The engine roared. The city blurred past.

"You knew," I whispered.

"Not about the deal."

"But you knew he would do something."

Rowan turned to look at me. In the dark of the car, his eyes looked black. "I know men like your father. He would rather see you dead than see you belong to me."

"And you did not think to warn me?"

"I am warning you now."

The car stopped. Not at the estate. A narrow street. Empty. Rain starting to streak the windows.

Rowan reached over and took my chin between his fingers. He turned my face toward his.

"Listen to me," he said. "You are mine now. Not your father's. Not Devon's. Mine. And I do not lose what is mine."

His thumb dragged across my lower lip. Slow. Deliberate.

"You are terrified," he said.

"Yes."

"Good." His voice dropped. "Fear keeps you alive. But do not ever be afraid of me. I am the only one in this city who will not let you fall."

He kissed me.

Not gentle. Not kind. It was a claim, hard and deep and possessive, his hand fisting in my hair, his mouth taking everything I had. I made a sound against his lips that I had never made before. He swallowed it.

When he pulled back, my hands were clutching his shirt and my knees had given up entirely.

"Say it," he murmured.

"Say what?"

"Say you are mine."

I should have refused. I should have opened the door and run into the rain and never looked back.

"My father is trying to kill you," I whispered.

"I know."

"He offered me to Vincent."

"I know."

"Then why are you—"

"Because," Rowan said, and touched his forehead to mine, "you just proved you would rather tell me the truth than protect him. That makes you mine. Say it."

I closed my eyes.

"I am yours."

The rain hit the glass like applause.

And then the phone in his pocket rang. He looked at the screen. His face went cold.

"What?" I said.

He answered it, listened for three seconds, and hung up.

"That was Damien." He started the engine. "Someone burned down your father's house. With him inside."