Page 24 of Gunnar

“Seatbelt.” He completely ignores me before reaching across me, his arm brushing my chest as he grabs the belt and pulls it across my body. His face is inches from mine, close enough that I can see the flecks of gold in his blue eyes, the clenched jaw beneath his short beard, and the vein pulsing in his temple. He’s furious. Absolutely livid. And despite everything—the humiliation, outrage, and sheer indignity of being carried out of a restaurant like a sack of potatoes—I can’t stop noticing how unfairly attractive he is when he’s angry. The muscle in his jaw ticks again, a steady rhythm of irritation that I find myself weirdly fascinated by.

He slams my door and rounds the car, sliding into the driver’s seat with a grace that makes me hate him a little more. His hands find the gearshift, and I watch, helpless and mesmerized, as his forearm flexes when he wraps his fingers around it. The tendons shift beneath his skin, strong, capable, and stupidly distracting.

“You can’t just⁠—”

“Can’t just what?” The engine roars and peels out of the valet. I grab the door handle as he whips my little sports car into oncoming traffic. “Can’t just do my job? Can’t just provide you with the protection that you are paying for?”

“I wasn’t in danger! I was having dinner with my friends⁠—”

“In a public restaurant, in a restricted vehicle, with no security, after explicitly being told the protocols were nonnegotiable.” He shifts gears again, and his hand works the stick, the movement sharp and controlled. “Do you have any idea what could have happened? Do you even care?”

“I care about not being a prisoner in my own home!” The words explode out of me, hot and frustrated. “I care about being treated like a human being, instead of a package that doesn’t have feelings or needs!”

“Human beings are vulnerable, Devyn.” His voice drops, quiet and deadly. “I understand that you think you’re important and too special for the rules to apply to you. You’re not special. Not to a bullet. Not to a blade. Not when it comes to a stalker who wants to get their hands on you. Not to anyone who wants to hurt you badly enough.”

Something in his tone causes my throat to tighten, forming a knot that I struggle to swallow back down. I shift my gaze away from him—looking out the window at the blur of lights, palm trees, and the endless stream of cars—with my hands clenched tightly in my lap, my nails digging tiny crescents into my palms.

“You’re a spoiled little brat,” he continues, and I flinch at the accuracy of his insult. “You think this is a game. That you’re proving something by sneaking out and disobeying the rules. Do you think treating the people trying to keep you safe like they’re the enemy is actually a good idea?”

“Maybe you are the enemy,” I mutter, hating how childish it sounds as it spills over my lips.

“If that’s truly how you feel, you’re already dead.” He takes a corner too fast, and I slide against the door, bracing myself too late with my forearm. “You’re so caught up in your own world that if the man who is actually hunting you wants you dead, you’ll never see it coming. You’ll just be gone.”

I wrap my arms around myself as the city gives way to Pacific Coast Highway, the gates of my property looming ahead. He barely slows when we approach the house.

The moment the car rolls to a stop, I hastily undo my seatbelt and push open the door. My heels click furiously against the cobblestones of the drive as I storm toward the house, needing to be away from him. I can’t stand the sight of his perfect forearms and the way he manages to make me feel small, stupid, and seen.

I shove through the front door, my breath coming in ragged gasps that I try to convince myself are from anger and not the tears pricking at the corners of my eyes. Gunnar is practically on my heel, his boots stomping across the driveway and up the front steps. I storm into the foyer, past the staring faces of Hawk and Jagger.

“Devyn!” Gunnar’s voice, sharp behind me.

Not breaking my stride, I keep walking to put much-needed distance between us. I need to drink a bottle of wine and scream my frustrations into my pillow. Like any sane thirty-year-old woman. Then, I can try to figure out why I can still feel the burn of his hand on my ass, and why the flex of his forearm is the only thing I see when I close my eyes.

Devyn shoves open her door as I slow the Aston Martin. I slam on the brakes, ensuring I’m stopped before her feet hit the ground. I don’t even bother turning off the engine before jumping out of the car and chasing after her. My boots hit the driveway with sharp, percussive strikes, each matching the rate at which my heart pumps fury through my veins.

She thinks she can just walk away? That this conversation is over because she decided it was?

“Devyn!”

Not a fucking chance she gets off that easy.

“Devyn Martin!”

I catch the front door before it closes in my face, my hand slapping against the wood with enough force for it to echo through the entryway. Devyn is halfway across the foyer, her shoulders rigid, that ridiculous excuse for a dress—emerald green and barely there—clinging to her body with every angered step. My gaze lingers on the line of her spine through the thin fabric and the way her shoulder blades shift beneath her skin. When I step into the foyer, I slam the door behind me. It closes hard enough that photographs on the entry wall rattle against the drywall.

“Do not slam my door!” Her velvety voice is controlled, yet furious. She whirls around to face me, her chin lifted at a defiant angle I’ve already come to recognize as her pre-brat stance.

I stare at her for a long moment, the color rising in her cheeks as her chest heaves with each breath. After abruptly turning on my heel, I wrap my fingers around the handle and pull the door open wide. The warm evening air rushes in as I stand in front of the open threshold for a few seconds before slamming it again. Harder. The pictures jump on their hooks, one threatening to fall to the floor.

“Gunnar—” Hawk sternly warns, from beside the staircase. As much as I might regret it later, I choose to ignore him.

“We are in charge here.” My booming voice fills the foyer, bouncing off the hardwood floors and the vaulted ceiling, resonating with an authority I don’t feel but absolutely own. “For your safety. You hired us to protect you, and that means from yourself, too.”

Devyn closes the distance between us in three quick strides, her heels like gunshots against the floor. She stops inches from me, close enough that I can smell the expensive floral perfume clinging to her skin. She jabs her index finger into my chest, firmly over my sternum, igniting a fire that burns through my shirt and over my skin. “I hired you.” Each spat word is accentuated with a poke of her finger. “You aren’t the boss of me.”

I look down at her finger, then up at her face. Devyn’s fury is beautiful. Her eyes are bright and dangerous. Her breaths, coming fast and heavy, blow between her parted red lips. The urge to do something stupid wars with my professional restraint. For a dangerous and electric moment, I let myself wonder what it would be like to actually teach her a lesson. The thought of her bent over my knee flashes through my mind. I can’t help but smile at the thought of showing her that her actions have consequences, and that her little rebellion could have cost her life.

My hands flex at my sides, fingers curling into fists, releasing, and curling again. I tower over her—six foot four to her five foot eight in heels—and I use every inch of that height, leaning down until we’re at eye level. Forcing her to see exactly how serious I am.