49. Mira

49

MIRA

Taylor has had some bad ideas over the years.

Responding to that email about the foreign prince with the amazing business opportunity? Bad.

Cutting her own bangs? Really bad.

But as Zane rounds the bar, dappled disco ball light glinting off the murderous look on his chiseled face, I know that this is, by far, her worst idea yet.

"Abort, abort," I hiss under my breath, kicking Taylor in the shins.

She waves me off and flicks her blonde hair over her shoulder. "So, what were you saying about mutual funds, Jason?"

"My name is Marcus," the man next to her drones.

"Of course it is." She giggles like a demented hyena.

I try to reach for the back of her dress. Maybe if I rip the zipper open, we can claim a fashion emergency, dart into the bathroom, and slip through the window before Zane gets over here.

By the time he gets back to the condo, I'll be in my flannels and he'll think he was seeing things.

But then the man next to me tucks his hand around my waist and slides me so close to him that we're practically sharing a stool.

"Whatcha drinking, darling?" he purrs in a way that lets me know he thinks this is going way better than it actually is.

"Nothing. I don't drink, actually. Ever. Not even water."

He pulls back, his face frozen between a laugh and a frown. "What?"

"Yeah, it's a weird religious thing. I never, ever consume liquids."

"You're kidding." He looks at the lemonade in front of me and back to my face like he's trying to decide if that's a statement or a question. Finally, he smiles. "You're funny."

"And you're in danger," I warn him. "You should go. Now. "

But I know it's too late as soon as the words are out of my mouth. I feel an electrical charge in the air as Zane gets close. I wouldn't be surprised if my hair was standing on end.

And when Zane rips the arm around my waist away and lays his fingers on my bare shoulder, it's like being shocked with a defibrillator. My heart is racing. For the first time all night, I feel alive .

"What the hell?" Finance Bro slams his drink down on the bar and spins around. "Who the fuck do you think you?—"

His voice trails off, and I don't need to turn around to know he's taking in Zane. All of Zane.

"Since you're the one with your hands all over my woman, I'll ask the questions," he snarls. "Who the fuck are you?"

R.I.P. Finance Bro. I should probably feel bad that I never even caught his name, but I don't.

"Fuck his name," Daniel spits, saying exactly what I'm thinking. "I don't care who they are. The only thing I care about is where their hands are. They better not be on my woman."

I'm still staring down at the bar, too frozen with… something … to move, but Taylor doesn't have my baggage. She whips around with a laugh. "Nobody owns me, Danny Boy. I can do what I like."

Daniel growls and Jason—er, Marcus—backs away with his hands raised. "I'm not really interested in what's happening here. Goodbye."

Then Daniel falls forward, his hands gripping the bar on either side of Taylor. "Don't tell me you want to waste your time with a man who wouldn't even fight for you."

Taylor glances my way. She looks at Zane's hand on my shoulder. His fingers are digging into my skin like he wants to brand me. "I don't think it was a waste of time."

She's misreading this. Zane is holding onto me, but it's because I lied to him about not coming out. Or maybe because I'm not supposed to be with another man so we don't ruin the optics for CPS…

Or… something.

Point is, there's gotta be some other reason why his hand is sliding down my bicep and hooking around my elbow. There's a logical, not-at-all-romantic explanation for why his nose brushes against my neck, why he's breathing me in like he's a dying man and I'm his last meal.

"Listen, man," Finance Bro balks, slipping backwards out of his chair in an effort to keep some distance from Zane, "we were just talking. She didn't say she had a boyfriend."

He didn't ask. Even if he had, Zane isn't my boyfriend . That feels worth repeating right now as my thighs clench and my heart slams against my ribcage.

Usually, confrontations like this bring up all kinds of shit I'm not ready to process. When tensions get high, I get hurt. My body goes into fight-or-flight. But for some reason, the angry growl in Zane's voice is tapping into a heretofore unknown option number three. Coincidentally, it also starts with an "f." I have to bite my lower lip to keep from leaning into Zane's chest with a simpering moan.

"She's mine," Zane snarls.

Even the blood in my veins freezes. Everything stops. My not-boyfriend swivels my stool around so we're finally face to face, and—yep, there it is. Option number three.

Fight.

Flight.

Fuck.

This is why I should have stayed home. I should be wearing my male-repellent pajamas with a locked door between me and the object of all of my most recent fantasies. If I was, I wouldn't be arching closer to Zane as if I want to lick his neck like an ice cream cone.

I wouldn't be thinking, Maybe I can stay. Maybe I can have this. Maybe I can stop running and let Zane protect me from the ghosts of my past.

His eyes are swimming in color, a trick of light from the disco ball. "She's mine," he growls again. Softer, lower. I'm not sure if he's talking to me or someone else.

Because there's no one else here anymore.

Zane tugs me off the stool, and I fall into his chest. My body slides down the length of his, my already short dress bunching around the tops of my legs. I know what he wants. I also know I should sit my ass down and stay far, far away from Zane Whitaker. For the sake of my poor racing heart, if nothing else.

"I can't leave Taylor," I blurt, looking over to my friend for solidarity. "She's—" Currently swallowing Daniel's tongue.

Daniel is wrapped around Taylor, pinning her to the bar. Based on the way she's dragging him closer and moaning, I'm guessing they already worked out their issues. Or, if they haven't yet, they're about to… in front of a bar full of witnesses, no less.

Zane leans forward, his lips against my ear. "You're coming with me, Mira. Even if I have to throw you over my shoulder kicking and screaming."

I'm tempted to let him. I want his hands on my body more than I care about everyone else seeing straight up my dress where the sun don't shine. And when he grabs for my hand, I let him pull me away from the bar.

Zane walks through the lounge like he knows where he's going. Like he's been here a thousand times before, even though it's the opening night. It's the way he walks through life: confident, self-assured.

He's a man who knows what he wants.

Right now, what he wants is me.

His thumb traces back and forth over my knuckles as we walk. We pass by the kitchen and a storage closet. So many rooms where Zane and I could go unseen. Finally, he stops at the end of a short hallway and pulls me through a heavy wooden door.

The door seals closed and the thrumming music and voices are gone like the world outside doesn't exist—and when Zane locks the door and turns to me, it might as well not.

"You're supposed to be at home, Mira." His eyes scrape over my body. "You told me you were going to be at home. In my house. With me."

I shake my head. "You weren't there."

"Because you were." He stalks towards me slowly, moving like he wants to stop himself but he can't.

"I d-don't—What does that mean?" I match every one of his steps with one of my own, backing away from him until my thighs hit something cold and hard. It's a sink, as it turns out. We're in a very nice bathroom, but there isn't time to look around because Zane is in front of me, eating up every drop of my attention.

He brackets his hands around my throat.. He's barely touching me, but I feel it in my toes. In my spine.

I feel Zane in every pulsing, shattered, desperate part of me despite how hard I worked to keep him out.

"I came out tonight to get away from you." His lips whisper over my skin. "If I stayed home, I was going to do something stupid. But then I looked up, and there you fucking were. With him. "

His hand tightens around the base of my throat. He could squeeze if he wanted. He could pin me against the wall, yell, scream, hit me, hurt me.

But he doesn't. I know he won't.

Which is why the scrape of his teeth over my pulse point doesn't scare me; it sends heat unspooling inside of me.

"I saw his arm around you and I wanted to rip it from the socket. You didn't want to go to dinner with me, but you were out with some asshole , and I—I'm losing my fucking mind, Mira."

"Because I'm yours?" I whisper.

Zane goes still. "Is that a question?"

It could be a statement. If my past didn't exist—if there wasn't an unbroken string of men in my life who did nothing but hurt me—then I could tell Zane the truth. Because I certainly don't belong to anyone else. There is no one else. I'm not sure there ever will be.

"Are you asking because you aren't sure or because you want to hear it again?" He kisses the soft skin beneath my ear. "Either way, here's the answer: you're mine."

My body is starting to shut down from the sheer pleasure of hearing those words from Zane's mouth. I have to grab the front of his shirt to stay standing.

"It wasn't ever a question," he adds. "Not once."

"It was for me," I breathe. "You're not the easiest man to read."

Suddenly, he tugs on the roots of my hair, angling my head back and forcing my eyes to his. "Then let me show you in a way you can't misunderstand."