Chapter 5

Jasmine's POV

The realization hit me like a physical blow.

The man in the car last night. The expensive interior. The cologne. That sharp, controlled presence.

Oh God, what had I said? What had I done?

My face burned with shame and something deeper, something that felt dangerously close to grief.

"Pour." One word. Flat. Final.

The other girls were staring at me with naked jealousy. They had no idea. They thought I'd won some kind of prize.

They didn't know I was dying inside.

My hands shook as I reached for the bottle. I tried to steady them, tried to look professional, but it was impossible. Every nerve in my body was screaming at me to run.

But I couldn't. Not anymore. The gap between us now was too wide. He was a king. I was nothing.

I poured the whiskey slowly, leaning forward. The V-neck gaped obscenely, and I felt exposed in a way that had nothing to do with skin.

"Nice view," one of the other Alphas said, grinning. "Your Majesty has good taste. This one's top-shelf."

"Is she?" Dominic's voice was bored. "I wouldn't know. I'm just here to experience the service level."

The words landed like a slap.

Service level.

Like I was a commodity. A product to be tested.

I set the glass down in front of him, trying to maintain what little dignity I had left.

But then his hand shot out and caught my wrist. He pulled me forward, and before I could react, I was falling into his lap.

"Your Majesty—"

"Quiet." His arm locked around my waist, holding me in place. His body was solid beneath me, warm in a way that made my traitorous heart stutter.

But his face showed nothing. No recognition. No emotion. Just cold assessment.

"Hold the glass," he said.

I picked it up with trembling fingers. This close, I could smell him—that cologne, the one I'd given him, mixed with something darker. Leather. Smoke. Power.

"Closer."

I leaned in. My chest pressed flush against his, the cheap fabric of the uniform doing nothing to hide the shape of my breasts. The weight of them flatten against the hard plane of his chest.

I could feel his breath on my skin. Could feel his heartbeat, steady and controlled, while mine was racing out of control.

"You're shaking," Dominic observed. "Is the glass too heavy?"

"No, Your Majesty."

"Then why—" He stopped. Tilted his head. "Are you playing coy? Is this part of the routine?"

I didn't understand.

He knocked the glass from my hand. It hit the floor with a crash, whiskey spreading across the expensive carpet.

"Your grip warmed the drink," he said coldly. "Pour another."

My face burned. The other Alphas were watching, some amused, some uncomfortable. The girls looked smug.

I climbed off his lap and poured again. My hands were shaking worse now.

"Watch your posture," he said when I brought the second glass. "You're holding it wrong."

I adjusted. He shook his head.

"Again."

The third glass, he finally accepted.

He took a single sip, then set it aside. "Adequate."

Then he reached into his jacket and pulled out a stack of bills. He didn't hand them to me. Instead, he dropped them on the floor at his feet.

Just like—

Just like that night. Six years ago. When the other man had thrown money at Dominic for the flowers.

"Pick it up," Dominic said softly.

The room went silent.

I stared at the money on the floor. My vision blurred at the edges.

This was punishment. He was making me live it. Making me feel what he'd felt.

I knelt and picked up the bills one by one. Each one felt like a piece of my soul being shredded. When I stood up again, my eyes were burning, but I forced a smile.

"Thank you, Your Majesty."

"You're welcome." He waved a hand dismissively. "You're free to go."

I turned and walked out. Held myself together until I was in the hallway.

Then I ran.

The bathroom was blessedly empty. I locked myself in a stall and let the tears come, silent and vicious. I pressed my hand over my mouth to muffle the sounds.

He knew. He knew it was me. And he hated me.

I couldn't blame him. I'd destroyed him. I'd taken everything good and beautiful between us and burned it to ash. He didn't know why. He'd never know why.

And now he was going to make me pay.

I wiped my face with shaking hands and stepped out of the stall. I couldn't stay here. Frank would dock my pay, I needed to get out—

"Well, well."

I turned. Cara stood there with two other girls, blocking the door.

"Looks like Miss High-and-Mighty got herself a private audience with the King," Cara said. "Bet you thought you were special."

"I don't want any trouble," I said quietly.

"Too late." She stepped closer. "You hogged him the whole time. Took all those tips. That money should've been split between all of us."

"I earned it."

"You're a greedy little bitch is what you are." Cara's hand fisted in my hair. "Acting all innocent, but you're just as much of a whore as the rest of us. You just pretend you're not."

I shoved her back. Hard.

She stumbled, caught herself. Her face twisted with rage. "You're going to regret that."

The other girls closed in. One grabbed my arm. I yanked free and swung, catching her across the jaw. She shrieked.

But there were three of them and one of me, and they were furious.

Cara's hand came up, palm open, aiming for my face—

"Enough."

The voice cut through the chaos like a blade.

Everyone froze.

Dominic stood in the doorway. He looked utterly calm, but there was something dark and dangerous in his eyes.

"The three of you," he said quietly. "You're fired. Get out."

"Your Majesty, she—"

"Now."

They scrambled away like rats fleeing a sinking ship.

I stood there, hair disheveled, breathing hard. I must've looked like a mess.

"Thank you," I managed. "I should—I have work—"

"The bar is mine now," Dominic said. "As of ten minutes ago. I bought it."

The words took a moment to register.

"What?"

"Which means you work for me." He stepped closer. "And I'm not done with your service yet."

Panic flared. "Your Majesty, I really need to—"

His hand closed around my wrist. He pulled me toward one of the bathroom stalls and pushed me inside.

I stumbled back against the wall—cold tile biting through the thin fabric of my top. "What are you—"

He followed me in. The lock clicked shut. The space shrank to nothing—his chest against mine, his breath grazing my forehead, his knee pressing into the inside of my thigh. The air turned thick with him: whiskey, leather, and that cologne I'd given him six years ago. Still there. Still the same. Like a ghost I'd never exorcised.

"Let me go." I tried to sound firm. My voice shook.

"You don't give the orders here." His hand came up to my throat. Not squeezing, just holding. A warning.

My heart slammed against my ribs. "Please—"

His mouth crashed against mine.

The kiss was nothing like I remembered. I remembered the first time he'd kissed me. How nervous he'd been, how gentle. How he'd pulled back after and looked at me like I'd given him something precious. How he'd told me, quiet and fierce, that he'd never let me go.

Not now.

Now it was hard, brutal, punishing. He bit down on my lower lip until I winced, and when I opened my mouth to protest, he pushed in deeper. I shoved at his chest, and he caught both my wrists in one hand, pinned them above my head against the cold wall.

My back arched—instinct, a reflex to escape—and I pressed deeper into him instead.

Then he deepened the kiss, tongue sliding past my teeth, taking what he wanted. My knees buckled. A sound rose in my throat—maybe a protest, maybe something else. I couldn't tell anymore. His leg slid between mine, wedging me against the wall, leaving me nowhere to go, not even down.

The hem of my shorts had ridden up so far that the bare skin of my inner thighs met the wool of his trousers. Every shift of my weight sent a small friction through me.

I could feel the heat of him through the layers, the slow burn where his leg touched my bare skin, and my body responded before my mind could stop it.

"Stop struggling," he murmured against my lips. "Unless you want someone to hear."