His Demure Mate

Chapter 2: Hotel Room

He stares at me, something flickering in his expression—recognition, maybe, or shock. It’s as if he knows me somehow, though I’ve never seen him before in my life.

“Sorry,” I mumble, trying to break the spell. I pull my hand away and focus on gathering the glass, hoping the heat in my cheeks isn’t too obvious. “I wasn’t paying attention.”

He smiles—a small, almost hesitant smile—and it makes my stomach flip. “It’s alright. I should have been more careful.”

There’s something strange in the way he looks at me, like he’s holding back. His eyes linger on mine, filled with emotions I can’t quite read—relief, confusion, longing. But just as quickly as the moment began, he pulls back, masking whatever he was feeling behind a polite smile.

He clears his throat, standing up and offering me a hand. “Kody,” he says, introducing himself. “Are you sure you’re okay?”

I stare at his outstretched hand for a moment, my heart still racing. Then, reluctantly, I take it. His palm is warm, and as he helps me to my feet, that same spark runs through me again, setting every nerve in my body on edge.

“I’m fine,” I whisper, but the words feel like a lie. I don’t feel fine. I feel… different.

Before I can dwell on it any longer, a low growl catches my attention—a sound so subtle, so quiet, I almost think I imagined it. But when I glance toward the far corner of the room, my stomach twists.

Brandon.

He’s sitting at his usual table, a glass of whiskey in hand, his sharp blue eyes locked on us. His expression is unreadable, but the tightness in his jaw, the tension in his posture—it all screams danger. He saw everything.

My heart sinks.

Kody follows my gaze, his brows furrowing slightly when he notices Brandon watching. A flicker of something dark crosses his face, but it’s gone just as quickly, replaced by an easy, composed expression.

“You know him?” Kody asks, his voice low, careful.

I nod, swallowing the lump in my throat. “He’s… a regular.”

It’s a lie, but what else can I say? Brandon’s not just some regular customer—he’s a storm waiting to break, and I know better than to get caught in his path.

Kody studies me for a moment longer, as if sensing there’s more to the story. His eyes soften slightly, and I feel that strange warmth again, like he wants to protect me from something he doesn’t even fully understand.

But then, just as quickly as it came, the warmth fades. Kody shifts his weight, stuffing his hands into the pockets of his jacket. There’s a flicker of frustration in his expression, as if he wants to say something but can’t.

“I—” He hesitates, rubbing the back of his neck. “If you ever need—”

“No.” The word comes out sharper than I intended. I glance nervously toward Brandon’s table. He’s still watching, his eyes burning holes through me, and the weight of his gaze makes it hard to breathe.

Kody seems to notice my discomfort. His jaw tightens, but he nods, understanding without needing an explanation. “Alright,” he says softly. “Take care, Mishele.”

The sound of my name on his lips sends another jolt through me, but before I can process it, he’s gone.

I watch him walk away, my heart pounding in my chest.

Whatever just happened between us—it wasn’t normal. It wasn’t something I could explain or ignore. And it certainly wasn’t something Brandon would let slide.

I glance toward Brandon’s table again, my pulse quickening when I see the look on his face.

He knows.

And he’s not happy.

The kitchen feels suffocating tonight. The heat from the stove clings to my skin, making my uniform stick to me in all the wrong places. The plates are stacked high, and every clang of cutlery grates on my nerves. I try to focus on getting everything ready—the wine glasses polished, the silverware perfectly aligned—but it’s hard to concentrate when I feel the weight of my father’s expectations pressing down on me like a stone on my chest.

Just as I set down the last plate, the door to the kitchen swings open, and my father steps inside. His expression is hard, his eyes sharp with something I can’t quite place. He wipes his hands on a rag and nods toward the back hallway, where the private dining rooms are.

“Come with me, Mishele,” he says, his tone clipped.

I frown, confused. “What? I still need to—”

“Now.” His voice leaves no room for argument.

I hesitate, my pulse quickening. Something feels off, but I know better than to question him when he’s like this. With a tight nod, I follow him down the narrow hallway, past the storage rooms and pantries, to the back of the hotel where the private suites are located.

My heart starts to race as we reach the end of the hall. There’s a room waiting at the very back—one we never use unless it’s for someone important. I’ve only been in there once, and even then, it felt like walking into a trap.

When we stop in front of the door, my father turns to me, his expression unreadable. “You’re going to go inside,” he says quietly, “and you’re going to behave.”

A chill runs down my spine. “What is this?” I whisper, fear creeping into my voice.

He doesn’t answer. Instead, he opens the door and gently pushes me forward, his hand heavy on my shoulder. “Don’t make this harder than it needs to be.”

I step inside, and the door clicks shut behind me. The room is dimly lit, the soft glow of a lamp casting long shadows across the walls.

And there, sitting in one of the leather armchairs, is Brandon.

The air seems to leave my lungs all at once.

He’s lounging like he owns the place, one arm draped casually over the armrest, a glass of whiskey in his hand. His cold blue eyes flicker with amusement as he takes me in—like a wolf savoring the sight of its prey.

“Mishele,” he drawls, his voice smooth as silk. “You’re looking… lovely tonight.”

I swallow hard, every instinct screaming at me to run, but my feet feel like they’re cemented to the floor.

“What do you want?” I ask, my voice barely more than a whisper.

Brandon’s smile widens, and it’s the kind of smile that makes my skin crawl. “Now, now. Is that any way to greet me? I came all this way just to see you.”

He sets his glass down on the table beside him and leans forward, resting his elbows on his knees. “Your dad and I have an arrangement, you see. And tonight… well, tonight’s your turn to keep up your end of the deal.”

My stomach churns, and I take an involuntary step back, but the door is locked, and there’s nowhere to go.

“You don’t have to do this,” I whisper, more to myself than to him.

Brandon chuckles softly, the sound low and dangerous. “You think you have a choice?” He stands slowly, like a predator stalking its prey, and closes the distance between us in a few long strides.

His hand brushes my cheek, and I flinch, but he catches my chin, forcing me to meet his gaze. “You belong to me, Mishy. You’ve known that for a long time. So why fight it?”

My heart pounds painfully in my chest. “I don’t belong to you,” I manage to say, though the words feel hollow.

Brandon’s grip tightens just enough to make me wince. “That’s where you’re wrong.”

There’s a knock on the door, and for a fleeting second, hope sparks in my chest. Maybe someone’s come to save me, to pull me out of this nightmare.

But when the door opens, it’s not salvation—it’s my father.

“Everything alright in here?” he asks, his gaze flickering between Brandon and me. There’s no concern in his eyes, only impatience, as if this is just another chore to check off his list.

Brandon smiles, his hand still gripping my chin. “Everything’s perfect.”

My father nods, satisfied. “Good. Just make sure she doesn’t screw it up.”

And then, just like that, the door shuts again, leaving me alone with the monster who holds my fate in his hands.

Brandon’s thumb brushes over my lower lip, and his smile sharpens. “Now, where were we?”