Mike Murphy stood there, filling the doorway with his commanding presence. Before I could react, he shoved me hard. I stumbled backward and crashed to the floor. He stepped inside, slammed the door shut, and locked it with a deliberate click that sounded like a death sentence.
I stayed on the ground for a second, heart hammering, staring up at him. He looked even more imposing than he had downstairs—taller, broader, radiating raw power and barely contained fury. His eyes burned with dangerous intensity.
I scrambled to my feet, refusing to stay down. “Stay back,” I warned, my voice sharper than I felt.
He was the man I had once loved. The same man I had spent years trying—and failing—to destroy. And right now, standing in my own club, he looked like he could be the death of me.
“So this
