Page 53 of Arrogant Puck

I don’t know if this is a good thing. Interest leads to attachment, and attachment makes you weak. It gives people power over you, ways to hurt you that go deeper than physical pain.

But she’s coming on the trip. Three days of planes, drives, and hotels and close quarters. Three days to figure out how to break down her walls without destroying what’s underneath.

Three days to claim what’s mine.

I turn off the water and reach for my towel, my mind already working through the possibilities. The team always stays at decent hotels—separate rooms but close quarters. Team meals where I can watch her interact with the other guys, make sure they know she’s off limits. Long bus rides where maybe, if I play my cards right, she’ll let me close enough to start earning her trust.

By the time I’m dressed and heading out to my car, my strategy is forming. I won’t push her the way I did today. I’ll be patient, careful. I’ll show her that I’m not the monster she thinks I am, even though we both know I am.

Because the truth is, I am dangerous. I am violent and possessive and probably exactly the wrong kind of man for someone with her history. But I’m also the only one who can protect her from everything else in this world that might try to hurt her.

And if that makes me a hypocrite, so be it.

She’s mine now. She just doesn’t know it yet.

I pull out my phone as I reach my car, scrolling to her contact. For a moment, I consider texting her, maybe something softer than my usual demands. But then I think about the way shelooked at me today—like I was something to be feared instead of wanted.

No. Texting won’t fix this.

I need to show her in person that I’m worth the risk.

Seeing her tonight can’t come fast enough.

By 7:45 PM, I’m pacing my living room like a caged animal. She should be here by now. I told her tonight wasn’t a choice, and despite her protests earlier, I expected her to show up. She always shows up, even when she doesn’t want to.

The surveillance camera on my front porch shows nothing but empty driveway and the glow of streetlights. No car pulling up. No Sage walking to my door with that determined set to her shoulders.

7:50 PM. Nothing.

The anxiety crawling up my spine is foreign, unwelcome. I don’t get anxious about women. I don’t pace around waiting for anyone. But here I am, checking my phone every thirty seconds like some dumb fucking lovesick teenager.

7:55 PM. Still nothing.

The rational part of my brain knows she’s probably just running late. Traffic, work stuff, whatever. But the darker part—the part that saw her break down today—whispers that something’s wrong. That she’s hurt or scared or in trouble.

8:00 PM exactly, and I can’t take it anymore. I hit her contact, and the phone barely rings once before she picks up.

“Hello?” Her voice is breathless, but not in the way I want it to be.

The sound that hits me through the speaker isn’t her voice—it’s music. Loud, pulsing, club music that makes me have to strain to hear her.

“Where are you?” The words come out harsh, but I’m too pissed to care.

“Slater?” She draws out my name in a sing-song voice that immediately sets me on edge. “Always so serious. So unprofessional.”

She’s mocking me. The little brat is actually mocking me, and I can hear the smile in her voice even over the deafening bass.

“Are you drunk?”

She laughs—actually laughs—and the sound is loose and careless in a way that makes my chest tighten. This isn’t like her. Sage is controlled, professional, careful. She doesn’t get drunk at loud clubs on work nights. And at 8:00 when she should be here? Does my princess have a death wish?

“Sage. Where the fuck are you?” I snap, anger simmering in my chest.

I’m fucking livid.

“I’m at...” The music gets louder for a moment, like she’s moving deeper into whatever den of chaos she’s found herself in. “I’m dancing! With Emma! And this place is amazing, Slater. Everyone here is so pretty and gay and—”

“Gay? Where the fuck are you?”

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