Page 5 of Mastered By Bishop

My eyes move to the hand still gripping the woman’s arm, knuckles white from how hard his hold is. He has put his hands on a woman who asked him twice to stop, in my house, in front of forty people, and he is still holding on. I move before he can anticipate me, before my brain registers what the fuck I’m doing.

My fingers find his wrist, the one clamped around her, and I twist, hard. I feel his bones shift seconds before he lets out a pained howl, his grip releasing. He stumbles back a few steps, eyes full of pain and fear as they meet mine.

I want blood. I want to hurt him, grind his bones to ashes until he has no use for the hand ever again, but I force restraint.

People. There are people here who don’t need to see my rage unleashed.

I don’t turn at the rush of feet as I recognize the hard tread of my security. Instead, I keep my eyes locked on the asshole stupid enough to cause a scene in Cathedral.

No one gets away with causing a scene in my fucking house.

“Apologize to the lady,” I order, my voice low and controlled. Very cold. “Now.”

“I—I…” he stammers, turning those terrified eyes to the chef. “I’m sorry. I didn’t… I wasn’t…”

I signal to security to take him out. Wolf, the club’s enforcer, will know what to do with him. He’ll rue the day he set foot in Cathedral, and I can see he knows that as he flinches when the men approach him. It’s useless to fight, and it’ll only make things worse, so he simply follows them out.

I watch their exit, then turn to my new head chef.

Margot Arnaud.

Of course I know her. Hell, I know everyone who works for me, from the managers to the part-time staff. Usually, I try to meet all the new staff, but these past couple of months have been hectic. Between club business and a trip to Vegas to see Pope, an attempt to mend our still fragile between us, I haven’t had a moment to breathe.

Tonight, the plan was to sit in as a customer and see my head chef at work. I was pleased to find the restaurant nearly full, service at peak and the food some of the best I’ve ever had.

But nothing came close to the surprise of seeing Margot for the first time. The professional head shot that landed on my desk two months ago doesn’t do her any justice. Watching her walk into the dining room was like getting sucker punched. Her dark brown curls, tamed into a messy ponytail, seemed to catch the light and turn slightly golden. A few strands had fallen to frame a heart-shaped face dusted with a constellation of freckles.

And her eyes—hazel brown—held a warmth and depth that drew me like a moth to a flame.

I couldn’t take my eyes off her. She moved through that dining room like it belonged to her, pausing for a quick word here, an easy smile there, never once looking rushed. I had every intention of calling her over when she was done with that man.

Well, that was until he touched her.

“Are you alright?” I ask, pulling her attention from the man being escorted out and to me. I can tell she’s mortified by the attention that man drew to her, and I hate the sad look on her face as much as I hate the fear I saw earlier. I get an overwhelming need to take her away, shield her from all those speculative looks, but I don’t want to terrify her any more than she already is.

“I’m okay, I…” She lets out a shuddering breath. “Okay, maybe I just need a minute. I—”

“Let’s get you settled,” I say, placing a hand gently on her shoulder and guiding her past the tables and out of the dining area. I subtly shake my head at the manager when she starts after us. Someone needs to stay back and help deal with the excited customers. I’ll take care of Margot.

We take a corner and walk into her office, a small hole-in-the-wall room meant for a desk, two chairs, a small closet, and little else. I spot the water bottle on her desk, so I grab it and uncap it for her.

“Thanks,” she says, lifting the bottle to her lips, but her hand trembles slightly. I step forward and take the bottle from her, lifting it to her lips myself, her eyes meeting mine in shock. Still, she takes a few tentative sips and lets out a long breath.

“I don’t usually rattle this easily.”

“You were attacked by a customer. Anyone would be shaken.” And I’ll be having a conversation about why there’s no security posted on this floor on a Friday night.

“I’ve dealt with difficult customers before. Someone who didn’t like their food. An agitated customer whose order we got wrong. Sometimes, we get people who are just in a terrible mood and want to take it out on us, but it’s never gotten physical or so…” Her words trail off, and she reaches up to tuck a loose curl behind her ear but winces, rubbing her arm.

“You’re hurt,” I say, reaching for the hand she pulls to her chest. “Let me see.”

“Are you a doctor?” she asks, even as she lets me take her hand.

I don’t respond as I carefully roll her sleeve up, but it’s long and a tight fit.

“Take the jacket off.”

“Oh, it’s okay. I just…” Her eyes meet mine, and once again, I’m struck by just how beautiful this woman is.