Page 3 of Sadistic

But I don't need to look to know.

One of Doran's men is walking back to the VIP section, and the message has been received loud and clear: hands off.

"That motherfucker," I breathe.

"Rev, let's just go?—"

"No." Fury burns through the fear.

Five years of looking over my shoulder, of wondering when they'd come collecting, and he's here playing games? "I'm done running from this bastard."

I march toward the VIP section, ignoring Dalla's attempts to stop me.

The security guard takes one look at me and steps aside—of course Doran arranged that too.

"Enjoying your evening?" Doran asks as I approach. His voice is deeper than I remember, carrying a hint of accent—a mixture of Russian and Irish.

I can't tell which he favors more.

"Was until I realized I had a stalker."

"Stalking implies unwanted attention." He gestures to the empty seat beside him. "You're my fiancée. I'm simply keeping an eye on my investment."

Me.

So, he wants me—not Dalla.

"I'm not your anything."

"Monday says otherwise."

He dismisses his men with a look, and suddenly we're alone in this bubble of expensive leather and danger.

Up close, I can see how the years have changed him—harder jawline, broader shoulders, new scars on his knuckles that show he’s just like my father.

The only difference is his fancy suit.

"Champagne?" He lifts a bottle that costs more than I make in a month. "The good stuff. Not whatever crap they were serving you down there."

"I'm fine."

"Sit, Revna." It's not a request. "We have things to discuss."

I remain standing. "You knew about Monday's meeting."

"I know everything about you." He pours himself another drink, movements lazy and controlled. "Your class schedule—Political Theory on Tuesdays and Thursdays. Your favorite study spot—third floor of the library, northwest corner. Your coffee order—oat milk latte with an extra shot."

My skin crawls. "How long have you been watching me?"

"Who says I ever stopped?" He stands, and I'm reminded that he's taller than I remember, forcing me to tilt my head back to maintain eye contact. "Five years, little wolf. Five years of watching you pretend this day wouldn't come."

"I wasn't pretending. I was living my life."

"Were you?" He steps closer, and I refuse to back down even though every instinct screams danger. "How many men have asked you out in those five years? How many suddenly lost interest? How many transfers, job changes, mysterious departures?"

The truth hits me like a slap across the face. "You didn't?—"

"I protected what's mine." His hand comes up, fingers ghosting along my jaw without quite touching. "Even if you weren't ready to admit it yet."

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