Daniel Garrett: They Took Her From Me

Chapter 8: Kat

"You have to help me!" I demanded, bursting into the conversation without a second thought. I didn’t care that Lydia and Joshua were in the middle of what looked like one of their usual teasing matches. Desperate times called for desperate measures, and I was absolutely desperate.

Joshua turned to me slowly, his expression darkening as if I had just snatched something precious right out of his hands. His blue eyes narrowed, his jaw tightening as he exhaled through his nose.

"Help you with what exactly?" Lydia asked, though I could already see the amusement flickering in her eyes.

"If I have to dance with your father or Christian one more time," I declared, poking a finger into Joshua’s firm chest, "I swear to God, I’m going to kill myself—right in the middle of the dance floor." I paused for dramatic effect, then gave him a pointed look. "Which means it becomes your problem, Joshy."

He rolled his eyes, but there was a smirk tugging at the corner of his lips. Instead of responding immediately, he wrapped an arm around Lydia’s waist, pulling her into his side as if to shield himself from my ridiculous complaints.

"Doesn’t there have to be drama at weddings?" he asked, glancing down at his wife with a knowing grin. Then, he turned his attention back to me, that infuriatingly playful glint in his eyes. "And you, Kat, are the queen of drama. So go do your thing."

I gasped, placing a hand over my heart like he had just mortally wounded me.

Lydia, on the other hand, arched an unimpressed brow. "Did you just encourage my best friend to off herself at our wedding?" she asked, her tone deceptively sweet. But I could see that glint in her eye—the infamous death glare she reserved for moments like these. It made me smirk.

"Be careful, Joshy," I grinned, folding my arms over my chest. "Keep it up, and you might be setting yourself up for a very different wedding night than you were hoping for."

Joshua sighed dramatically before pressing a kiss to Lydia’s temple, his tone softening. "Of course not, dearest. I was only joking," he murmured before turning back to me. "Kat knows how much I adore her."

I narrowed my eyes at him. He better be telling the f*****g truth.

I had taken his side so many times before, sat through hours of Lydia agonizing over him, pushed her toward him when she was too stubborn to see what was right in front of her. I had spent months telling her to just give in and bang his brains out, which—surprise, surprise—was exactly what they needed to finally get together.

So yeah, he better be my number one fan. Or else.

Lydia, blissfully unaware of my inner threats against her husband, beamed suddenly. "How about we find someone for you to actually dance with?"

I groaned. "Someone I can actually flirt with," I clarified. "Because even though I know your dad loves it, I just can’t bring myself to keep it up."

She laughed as she scanned the crowd, obviously searching for someone she deemed worthy of my attention.

I stood beside her, glancing around half-heartedly, though I already knew the odds of finding someone interesting were slim. Lydia’s world had always felt a little suffocating to me—the wealth, the status, the unspoken rules of their high society.

I liked some parts of it, of course. The shopping, for one. The fact that she could drop thousands on designer shoes without blinking. The luxury of it all, the excess. That I could get behind.

But the backstabbing? The snide comments? The constant maneuvering to get ahead? I hated all of it.

I remembered when I first met Lydia in college, how she had been so matter-of-fact about her future husband—how he had to meet a long list of requirements, none of which had anything to do with love.

He had to be rich. He couldn’t be a nobody. He had to be Ivy League—Harvard, Princeton, Yale. He had to come from old money, the kind that had been passed down for generations.

No mention of personality. No mention of attraction. No mention of anything that actually mattered.

I had laughed at the time, told her she should just marry Tony Stark or Bruce Wayne if she was so hell-bent on status. But she had simply shaken her head, telling me that Brian Conner would never allow it.

And yeah, okay, the obvious reason was that they were fictional. But the other reason?

They had bad reputations. And apparently, that was an even bigger deal than being fictional.

"Found one!" Lydia suddenly squealed, snapping me out of my thoughts.

She turned to Joshua, pressing a quick kiss to his lips before grabbing my wrist and dragging me through the hall.

I followed along without resistance. Why not?

She would probably find me some eligible bachelor, some Ivy League trust fund baby who would think my sarcasm was charming for exactly five minutes before realizing I had no interest in playing the polite, well-mannered trophy wife role.

I’d engage in some light flirting, maybe let him spin me around the dance floor, then go home alone to my vibrator—just like every other night.

Except now, my thoughts had a new fuel source.

The car guy.

I had seen him again. And now, I couldn’t stop thinking about him.

A sigh left my lips as I let Lydia drag me along. Should I just go up to him? Should I tap him on the shoulder and say, Hey, remember me?

Something inside me wanted to.

Wanted to remind him that I sure as hell remembered him.

Wanted to ask him if he could please make me come again—if he could please pull me into the backseat of a car one more time and make me forget everything but his name.

A deep, low voice rumbled through the air, cutting through my thoughts like a blade.

"Don’t push your luck, Boucher."

I felt it before I fully processed it—felt the way it moved through me, the way it wrapped around my spine and sent a shiver down my body.

It was deep. Rough.

Familiar.

The sound of it resonated in my bones, in my core, making my stomach clench with a sharp, traitorous kind of anticipation.

I remembered that voice.

I remembered how it sounded when he groaned. When he exhaled against my skin. When he drowned in pleasure.

Lydia’s voice suddenly broke through the moment, light and teasing.

"I could never imagine Daniel as a romantic," she mused, making my eyes widen.

I stopped abruptly, my breath catching in my throat as we came to a halt behind broad, familiar shoulders.

Oh. f**k.

"But," she continued with a smirk, "he is a great dancer."

My heart started hammering in my chest, a relentless, thunderous rhythm that I couldn’t control. My hands grew slightly sweaty, and my legs trembled, just enough for me to notice but hopefully not enough for anyone else to see. Did she know? Did Lydia somehow know that this was him? The car guy—the man who had f****d my brains out a little over a year ago, the man I had been obsessing over ever since?

The thought made my stomach twist into a knot so tight I thought I might double over.

And then, as if moving on invisible strings, he turned around—slowly, precisely, like some dark, mechanical force had guided his movements. His metallic gray eyes locked onto me, sharp and cutting, and for a moment, I forgot how to breathe. That scar running from his eyebrow made him look even more menacing, as if he had walked right out of a movie—dangerous, untouchable.

Did he recognize me?

I sure as hell recognized him. Every single thing about him was delicious. The curve of his lips, the chiseled angles of his jaw and nose, the way his deep blue tie sat snug against his throat, pulling attention to the column of his neck.

And God, he even smelled good.

Even from a distance, I could still catch the faint, intoxicating scent of his cologne—something dark, woodsy, laced with the kind of warmth that made you want to lean in closer, let it consume you. My body remembered it before my mind fully did, that scent imprinted on me like some kind of ghost, a haunting reminder of a single night that had never truly left me.

“Lydia,” he finally said, his gaze dragging away from mine.

The loss of it felt almost jarring, like stepping into cold air after being wrapped in heat.

A small smile curved his lips as he leaned down, pressing a slow, deliberate kiss to Lydia’s cheek.

She beamed, closing her eyes as if soaking in the moment, leaning into him just enough to make it clear that she adored him. It wasn’t the kind of love she had for Joshua, no, but there was something else there. Admiration, loyalty—like he was her Tony Stark or Bruce Wayne, but without the tragic romance.

“Are you having a great time?” he asked, his deep voice cutting smoothly through the noise of the reception.

Lydia practically glowed. “I’m having the best time,” she declared, her happiness practically vibrating off her.

He nodded approvingly, his expression softening just a fraction. “I’m glad to hear that, princess.”

Princess.

A shiver trailed down my spine.

I had told him—I wasn’t a princess. I was a queen. And f**k if he hadn’t treated me like one. His queen. The way he had murmured those words against my skin, the way his hands had gripped my thighs, his lips dragging along my neck as he whispered—my queen.

The memory sent a sharp, unwelcome jolt of heat straight through me.

I forced myself to focus, but it didn’t get any easier when Lydia turned, sending a conspiratorial smile in Mathéo’s direction before looking back at him.

“My bridesmaid here,” she said, gesturing toward me, “is in desperate need of a good dance.”

Oh. No.

I felt my stomach drop.

“And I know you don’t dance at functions,” she continued, rolling her eyes like it was some long-standing, ridiculous fact. “But this is my wedding, and you can’t say no to the bride.”

I wanted to sink into the floor. Right there, in the middle of this goddamn wedding, I wanted the universe to swallow me whole.

“Jesus,” I muttered under my breath, my entire body thrumming with embarrassment.

Lydia had just set me up with my old one-night stand. The one person in this entire room who I would rather not be forced into some polite, meaningless interaction with. And worse? He didn’t even seem remotely interested in dancing with anyone.

Except—

“Of course, I’ll dance with her,” he said, the words so smooth, so effortless, that they made me snap my head up in shock.

His eyes were already on me again, locking me in place with that same unreadable intensity. There was something there—something hot and knowing, something that sent heat blooming in my cheeks before I could stop it.

“How could I say no to such a beauty?”

I swallowed, my throat suddenly dry.

His hand extended toward me, palm up, rough fingers slightly curled.

And God, his hands.

I remembered those hands. Calloused, strong—the kind of hands that worked, that held, that knew exactly how to touch, how to grip, how to leave bruises in the most delicious places.

The memory made my skin prickle with heat, my thighs squeezing together instinctively before I could stop myself.

“You really don’t have to,” I said quickly, my voice coming out a little too breathless.

“Oh, come on, Kat,” Lydia prodded, her tone light, teasing. “I promise it’s nothing like Christian.”

I exhaled sharply through my nose, my tongue darting out to wet my lips.

The moment I did it, his eyes followed the movement. I saw it. The subtle shift, the way his jaw tightened, the slight flare of his nostrils. It was only a split second, but it was there. He was waiting. Waiting for me to decide.

And suddenly, this felt like more than just a dance. It felt like a decision. Like a crossroads.

If I said no, if I walked away, that would be it. No more car guy. No more fleeting fantasies.

But if I took his hand—if I let myself step back into this moment, into him—what then?

There was only one way to find out.

I inhaled deeply, steadying myself before forcing a slow, easy smile onto my lips.

“Just one dance, then.”

I lifted my hand, sliding my fingers into his.

His palm was just as rough as I remembered, his fingers curling around mine with the kind of surety that sent something deep and dark rolling through me.

With that, he took a single step onto the dance floor, making sure I was following. His stride was longer than mine, effortlessly confident, and it took two of my steps to match just one of his.

When he finally stopped, he turned me to face him, his hand finding my hip.

Jesus.

His touch was warm, even through the fabric of my dress, seeping into my skin, into my bones. It felt like he was touching more than just my body—it felt like he was touching something deeper, something hidden and waiting, something that had always been his to claim.

Then, slowly, he leaned in, his breath hot against my ear, his voice low and sinful.

“I finally found you, my queen.”