Page 62 of Gunnar

“Fine,” Damon relents. “But he doesn’t go past the kitchen. And I’m staying with you the whole time.”

“Thank you,” I chirp.

Ten minutes later, the gate intercom buzzes, and I watch through the window as Damon approaches the car, a sensible sedan that Jake has driven for years. They exchange words I can’t hear, Damon’s hand resting conspicuously on the weapon at his hip, before he opens the gate and Jake pulls through.

Jake walks up to the front porch, a travel tray balanced in one hand and a paper bag in the other. He looks exactly as he always does, khakis and a button-down, wire-rimmed glasses, and the slight paunch that comes from too many lavish business dinners and not enough time at the gym. “Figured it would be rude not to bring enough for everyone,” he shares as I open the door, his smile warm and genuine.

I take the tray from him, my fingers brushing his. “Well, everyone is just me and Damon,” I say, stepping back to let him inside.

“Oh,” Jake exhales, his expression flickering and something I can’t quite read passing behind his eyes. “Well, more for us, then. Where are the others?”

“Running an errand,” Damon answers, his gaze intently focused on Jake. I can feel the tension radiating from him, the protective instinct that Gunnar entrusted him with. To counter it, I try to project calmness as I lead us into the kitchen.

“Sit,” I tell Jake, gesturing to the barstools at the island. “I’ll get the plates.”

“Don’t trouble yourself,” he says, already settling onto the stool. The paper bag rustles as he unpacks croissants that smell like heaven—butter, almonds, and sugar—the kind of indulgence I’ve been denying myself for weeks.

Damon takes a coffee from the tray and takes a cautious sip. “You have to try one of these,” I insist, pushing a croissant over to him before sliding one toward Jake and taking one for myself. “They’re to die for. Seriously, I dream about these sometimes.”

“Definitely life-changing,” Jake agrees, adjusting the plate in front of him. “Worth the drive alone.”

Damon hesitates for a moment before he takes a bite, his eyebrows rising in genuine surprise. “Fuck,” he groans, the word muffled by the pastry. “These are good.” He polishes off the rest of the croissant in a few efficient bites, washing it down with a long swallow of coffee, and I feel some of the tension bleed from the room.

The conversation carries between the three of us, light and professional. Jake updates me on a script that came through yesterday—a romantic comedy that would be a departure from my usual dramatic roles—that he thinks I would be remarkable for. I tell him about the premiere last night, carefully editing out the parts involving Gunnar’s hand between my thighs under the table.

“What has you in Malibu this early in the morning anyway?” I ask, breaking off another piece of croissant. “Don’t you usually work from your office over on Sunset?”

“Late-night meeting with a director in Camarillo. A few too many drinks, so I thought it was a good idea to spend the night in a hotel,” Jake shares, checking his watch before looking up and meeting my eyes. “Thought I’d surprise my favorite client on the way. Check in, see how you’re holding up with all this security nonsense. I worry about you, Dev. You’ve been so distant lately. So guarded.”

I feel the familiar guilt, the weight of secrets I’m keeping from someone who used to know everything about me. “I’m fine,” I lie. “Just… dealing with some things. Personal things.”

“Personal things,” Jake repeats, his tone unreadable. “Like the new boyfriend?”

Damon helps himself to another cup of coffee as I take the final sip of mine.

“Gunnar is… He’s good for me.” I smile. “He makes me feel safe.”

“Safe,” Jake muses, glancing at his watch again. “That’s important. Feeling safe.”

Jake rambles on about industry gossip, his eyes flicking between his watch, me, and Damon. He asks a question that I don’t quite comprehend. I blink, trying to clear my head, and realize that Damon is swaying slightly where he leans against the counter. His pupils are dilated, and his gaze looks unfocused. Stumbling slightly, his hand grips the granite edge so hard his knuckles blanch white.

“You all right?” I ask, pushing to my feet, my own movement sluggish.

Damon looks at me, and his mouth opens, but no words come out. “Yeah,” he finally manages, his voice slurred. “Just feeling a little…”

His legs give out, and he falls, crashing to the floor. I lunge toward him to make sure he’s okay, but my own legs betray me. The ground is unsteady beneath my feet, the room spinning around me in lazy, nauseating circles.

“Damon,” I gasp, my voice sounding like it’s coming from underwater, realizing—far too late—that something is terribly wrong.

I take a step, or I attempt to, but my coordination is gone. My limbs are heavy and unresponsive. The kitchen tilts, the floor rising to meet me, and I understand with crystalline, horrifying clarity that I’ve been drugged. We’ve been drugged.

“Jake?” I fight against my body to turn my head, the movement requiring Herculean effort. As my vision focuses, I find him sitting on his stool perfectly steady.

He pushes from his stool and removes his wire-framed glasses as he turns to face me. His mask has slipped. Or perhaps, he’s simply chosen to remove it. His usual warm, professional expression has transformed, and the one I’m left staring at makes my blood turn to ice.

“Careful, my love,” he whispers, his voice soft, tender, and terrifying in its intimacy. He moves toward me, his steps unhurried. He catches me when I sway again, his hands gripping my arms with a gentleness that feels obscene given the circumstances. “We wouldn’t want you to hurt yourself.”

He lowers me onto the barstool, his touch lingering as his eyes roam over my face with a familiarity that makes my skin crawl. I try to speak. To scream. To demand answers. But my thoughts are scattered, and my tongue is thick and uncooperative. “Ja… Jaaa…”