Chapter 4 4
That single word “Daddy” hung in the air between us, cheap and dangerous, the kind of thing you say in a movie when you’re trying to be a tough girl you’re not.
I saw his eyes change. They narrowed, just a fraction, like he was adjusting his focus on a particularly puzzling insect.
What could I have said otherwise, though? My brain scrambled. Sir? Mister? Old man? All of those sounded worse, somehow.
To my surprise, a low, rough chuckle escaped him. It wasn’t a happy sound. It was the kind of chuckle you’d hear from a lion who’d just watched a rabbit try to bluff its way out of a trap.
“Daddy?” he repeated, the word rolling around in his mouth like he was tasting it. “Isn’t it bold to make such a claim?”
I gulped. The sound was embarrassingly loud in my own ears. What the heck did he mean? A claim? It was just a stupid, sarcastic jab.
He didn’t wait for an answer. He simply leaned closer, seeking no permission, his movement as natural and inevitable as a tide coming in. The space between us evaporated, filled now with the scent of him—that clean, sharp smell cutting through the bar’s stale beer-and-bleach odor.
“I think,” he said, his voice dropping to a murmur meant only for me, “you should add the word ‘Sugar.’ Not just ‘Daddy.’” He took another step, his body now so close I could feel the heat radiating from him. His face lowered, casting his expression into shadow, but I could feel the intensity of his gaze like a physical weight. “Or I might just have to give you the spanking you deserve, right here.”
My breath hitched. He was mystifying and unsettling at the same time. This wasn’t some cheesy pickup line from a guy at a club. There was a calm, serious certainty in his voice that suggested he was not in the habit of making idle threats. It froze the blood in my veins even as something stupid and reckless in my stomach did a slow, treacherous flip.
I rolled my eyes, forcing every ounce of practiced teenage defiance I could muster into the gesture. “Whatever.” Then I made my move. I ducked my head and tried to slip under his arm, the one still braced against the wall.
He didn’t budge. Not an inch. He didn’t grab me or shove me back; he just… remained. Solid. Impassable. Like a mountain daring a pebble to roll it over. It was infuriating.
“Let me go,” I said again, layering my voice with a warning I didn’t feel. I hoped he’d hear the frayed edge, the panic I was barely holding back, and find this whole situation as wrong as it suddenly felt.
But he just kept staring. He wasn’t looking at me with anger, or even with the sleazy interest I was used to deflecting. He was looking at me in a strange, deep way, his head tilted slightly. It was like he was seeing me for the hundredth time but still hadn’t gotten his fill.
His eyes, those deep, unignorably dashing hazel eyes, held a focus that was completely unnerving. They tracked over my face, my own wide eyes, my mouth still tingling from the kiss, with an unsettling curiosity.
For a second, they almost had me lost in them. There was a depth there, a gravity, that was the polar opposite of Logan’s shallow, performative charm. Then I snapped out of it, a cold jolt of reality hitting me. This man might be a psycho. A rich, hot, terrifying psycho who had me pinned against a wall in an uncomfortable bar.
My eyes darted around, looking for an escape, for help. The few people who had been lingering were gone now, melted back into their tables in the bar or scattered into the night. The bouncer down the way was pointedly looking in the other direction. They were all keeping their distance, acting as if he was a beast with horns, not just a middle-aged man in a well-cut coat. The thump of the bass from inside the bar felt suddenly distant, like a heartbeat from another room. The world had gone quiet, leaving only him and me in this terrible, intimate bubble.
I prepared to chide him again, to scream, to kick his shin—anything—after analyzing that there was no way I could push past his obvious strength. His hand rested on the wall beside my head, not even touching me, but it felt like a cage made of iron.
Then, without a word, he dropped his hand. Just like that. He straightened up, taking half a step back, the intense focus wiping from his face as if it had never been there. He said nothing. Just looked at me, waiting.
The sudden release of pressure was so abrupt it left me dizzy. My attitude, my false bravado, came surging back in a defensive wave.
“Good for you,” I scoffed, the words dripping with as much contempt as I could muster. I didn’t run. I made myself walk, a slow, deliberate stride away from him, my back straight even though every nerve was screaming for me to bolt.
I couldn’t deny the lingering effect of the face-off. My skin felt too tight, hyper-aware. My lips still burned.
What nonsense? I scolded myself, stepping out into the empty road. My heart wasn’t just racing; it was a frantic, caged bird slamming against my ribs. I felt eyes watching me. The sensation was so strong it prickled the nape of my neck.
I inhaled sharply, clenching my fist, preparing to spin around and send it right into the face of whoever was following me. I looked back, my gaze sweeping the dark street, the closed shop fronts, the mouth of the alley.
No one.
I exhaled, a shaky, ragged thing, and flagged down a taxi that was just pulling up to the curb, its yellow light a blessed relief.
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The taxi dropped me a block from home. The sprawling, silent estate of the Pack house loomed ahead, all dark timber and moon-touched windows. I’d dodged the stationed guards at the gate by slipping through the old break in the eastern hedge, a path known only to me and the rabbits. I moved like a ghost, flitting from shadow to shadow, seen by no Gammas on patrol, no pack members returning to their houses to call it a night. The quiet was absolute.
My heart started racing again, but this time it wasn’t because of the weirdo stranger. This was a colder, sharper fear—the fear of being seen by the one person I was trying to avoid at all costs.
Goddess, help me.