59. Weston

I don’t like the look on her face.

Some smug exec from Adidas is talking my ear off while I watch Renee. I have no fucking idea what he’s jabbering about, but I’m nodding like a bobblehead. My eyes stay fixed on Renee.

Her sick look has turned to anger and then back to sickness. I suspect that her sour expression has something to do with the two jackasses cornering her against the bar. When the older one leans in to kiss her cheek, I decide I’ve had enough.

I press my half-empty drink into the chest of the Adidas douche. “Hold that for me, friend.” I don’t bother waiting around to see how he likes that little maneuver.

I stride across the floor. Every step has my heart dropping another inch in my chest. There’s a bad aura radiating from this unpleasant little trio.

Renee looks small. Terrified. She’s got the huge eyes of a rabbit cornered by hawks.

The bastards hemming her in have the arrogant sneers of men who are so used to destroying lives that they do it without even noticing the damage they leave in their wake. Just looking at them, I can see decades’ worth of waitresses fired for spilling wine in their vicinity. Valets threatened for dinging the Benz.

They don’t hold a candle to me physically, of course—I could snap them both in half with one hand like dry twigs. But these are the kinds of men who don’t commit their own violence.

Unfortunately for them, I do.

I’m three steps away. Two. One.

But just as I’m about to open my mouth, Renee pushes her way between them and pulls me with her. She’s rushing me away, taking us across the dancefloor, swerving in and out between couples moving in time to the orchestra version of some old Aerosmith song, and she isn’t slowing down.

She doesn’t slow down until we’re standing as far away as we possibly can.

I glance over her shoulder and see that the younger of the two assholes is still glaring in our direction. He has dark, bottomless eyes, like the mouths of an oil well. I don’t like how he’s looking at her.

Like he thinks he owns her already.

With a grimace, I wrench my attention back to Renee. she’s trembling and she needs me more than I need to kick that fucker’s ass.

“Renee, are you alright?”

She shakes her head and presses herself into my arms. I hold her until she calms, careful to keep her facing away from them. The song changes, the couples circulate around on the dance floor, but we stay put.

Finally, she peels herself off of me. Her breathing has returned to normal and her pulse is almost back in normal range.

“Better?” I ask.

She gulps, the diamond choker on her throat riding with the motion, and nods. “Yeah. Sorry about that.”

“You want to tell me about it?”

“No. Not really.”

I frown. “You want to tell me who they are?”

“They’re no one.” She shakes her head and looks away.

“Don’t lie to me, Renee. Who the fuck is that?” I jab a finger over my shoulder and she looks, then ducks in front of me again. Apparently, whoever they are, she isn’t itching for a repeat rendezvous.

“It’s no one, Weston. Seriously.”

That shit isn’t going to fly. I take her by the wrist and drag her through the nearest doors. We end up in an empty hallway, but I want more privacy than that. I try one of the doors on the far wall. Locked. The second is, too, and the third, but the fourth gives way. It turns out to be a janitor’s closet. I pull her in behind me and kick the door shut.

I press her against the wall, push my body against hers. “You need to talk to me.”

She turns her face away from me. “No.”

“No?”

“No, Weston.” When she sniffles once, I think maybe she’s going to cry, but when I tilt her chin up, there aren’t tears in sight. There’s sadness, though. And terror.

Enough to almost break me.

“Renee, I’ve never wanted to slay anyone’s dragons before. But if you’re in danger… fuck, princess—I’ll wade through hellfire to keep you safe.”

“I’m not in danger.”

I’m ready to rip my hair out in irritation. “Then what’s the problem with Daddy Warbucks and the little tool he keeps attached at his side?”

She sighs. “I already said it’s nothing.”

“And you lied. So let’s move onto the next step.”

“Let it go, Weston. It’s not your business.” She narrows her eyes at me. “If I need your help, I’ll ask.”

As I’m about to inform her that she’s mine, which makes every fucking thing about her my business, she yanks the door open and leaves.

I stare after her for a minute. I keep waiting for her to turn back, but she doesn’t. She disappears back into the ballroom.

Goddammit.

I don’t know what the hell is going on, but I’m going to find out and then I’m going to deal with it.

The rest of the night, I don’t stop watching her. I don’t approach her, though. If she needs a minute, some space, I can give her that, but not much more. And in the meantime, I’ll be goddamned if I let her out of my sight or let anyone get near enough to hurt her.

Her gaze darts around when she thinks no one is watching, searching for God-knows-what. I’m betting it’s to make sure those fuckers she was talking to remain far away from her.

But I don’t see them again.

By the end of the evening, I’m keyed up but sick of keeping my distance. I approach cautiously because, while she’s been careful to stay away from the preening duo, she’s also stayed away from me.

I don’t like that one bit.

When I touch her bare shoulder, she doesn’t startle. Neither does she turn. “Renee?” From the side, I can see her eyes close, the rise and fall of her chest, the pulse in her throat.

“Weston.” Finally, she looks at me, eyes open, mouth in what I’m sure she thinks is a smile but looks more like a grimace. “I’m going to stay at Sutton’s place tonight. I’ll get a cab.”

“You don’t want a ride home?”

“No. I need…” She pauses and clears her throat. “Some time to think.”

That’s the last thing on Earth I want to give her. But when she looks like that and sounds like that… it doesn’t seem like I have much of a choice.