Daniel Garrett: They Took Her From Me

Chapter 7: Daniel

“So, you’re opening a new club?” I asked Mathéo Boucher as he walked up beside me, his presence commanding attention without him even trying.

“I am,” he confirmed with a slow nod, his sharp gaze scanning the dance floor. The energy in the room was palpable—laughter, clinking glasses, and the steady rhythm of music blending into a perfect storm of celebration.

“And as usual, I’ll need some great security.”

I nodded, taking a slow sip of my whiskey. It was what Mathéo had ordered, and honestly, who in their right mind wouldn’t follow his lead? The liquor was rich, smooth against my throat, with just the right amount of spice that lingered but didn’t burn. Quality, refined, like everything Mathéo surrounded himself with.

“I’ll find you some men,” I answered, my voice steady, but my attention was elsewhere.

My eyes locked onto her.

My queen.

She was moving along with Christian Howard on the dance floor, her dress flowing with her every step, her laughter echoing over the music like a siren’s call. She didn’t even seem to be enjoying herself, not really, but still, she danced with him. Again and again.

What was this, their eighth dance? How could he keep occupying her time like that?

And when she wasn’t with him, Brian Conner swooped in, spinning her around with that charming grin of his, as if he had every right. At least she seemed to enjoy that more—her smile more genuine, her body less stiff.

I felt something tighten in my chest.

It was ridiculous.

I had no claim on her.

But that didn’t stop the slow burn of irritation from spreading through my veins like wildfire.

“Do you know the bridesmaid?” I asked Mathéo, unable to hold back. I had seen him talking to her earlier, and for some reason, the curiosity gnawed at me.

Mathéo turned his head, studying me for a solid three seconds before that damn sly smile tugged at his lips. He knew something.

“Sure, I know Kathleen,” he admitted casually. “She’s one of Lydia’s friends from college.”

Not Christian Howard’s girlfriend.

The thought settled in my mind like a stone dropping into deep water, sending ripples through my already restless mood.

“I don’t think she’s ever mentioned her to me,” I muttered, taking another slow sip of whiskey, letting the warmth distract me.

On the dance floor, Christian laughed at something she said. She rolled her eyes, her lips twitching like she was holding back a smirk.

Mathéo shrugged, lifting his own glass. “Maybe she thought you wouldn’t match well.” There was amusement in his voice, like he was enjoying this conversation far too much.

I turned my head slightly, giving him a look. “And why’s that?”

“No offense,” he continued, unfazed, “but Kathleen is like this humongous bubble of energy. And you… you don’t really strike me as the type who enjoys that kind of company.”

I exhaled through my nose, my grip on the glass tightening for a second before I relaxed my fingers again.

“None taken,” I said, because he wasn’t wrong.

I had lived through enough to know I preferred solitude. I preferred quiet nights over crowded rooms, preferred the cold distance over messy entanglements. Kathleen Denver was the complete opposite of that. She was light and chaos, energy and laughter, all rolled into one unpredictable force.

And yet…

Lydia had grinned when she told me Kathleen’s name, like she had seen right through me. Like she knew something I didn’t.

But f**k, if I hadn’t stood in that goddamn line just waiting to ask her what her name was.

“Christian must be thrilled to have her attention,” I tried, forcing myself to sound indifferent, like the words weren’t grating against my throat like broken glass. But even I could hear the strain in my voice.

Mathéo laughed, shaking his head like I had just said the most ridiculous thing in the world.

“Oh, he wishes,” he scoffed.

I raised an eyebrow. “What do you mean?”

Now, Mathéo had my full attention.

He smirked, taking his time, like he was enjoying the anticipation. “He’s been hitting on her relentlessly for four months.”

Four months.

That little piece of information settled into my brain like a spark hitting dry wood.

“And as far as I know,” Mathéo continued, still smirking, “she’s turned him down every single time.”

I turned my gaze back to the dance floor.

Christian was talking, probably throwing out one of his usual lines, and Kathleen—my queen—rolled her eyes at him like she had heard it all before.

“They seem like the perfect couple,” I muttered, and just saying it out loud made something inside me twist so violently it was almost physical.

The words felt wrong.

It was like forcing a puzzle piece where it didn’t belong, like something deep inside me was screaming at how unnatural the thought was.

Because how could anyone be the perfect match for her—except me?

Mathéo grinned like he knew exactly what was going through my mind.

“No, they’re not together,” he confirmed, shaking his head. “Although, I think Kat is taking pity on him.”

I narrowed my eyes slightly. “Pity?”

“Yeah,” Mathéo chuckled. “I think she actually likes Christian. Thinks he’s a good guy. But her heart?” He took another slow sip of his drink, eyes gleaming with amusement. “That belongs to someone else.”

Someone else.

The words settled over me like a heavy weight, pressing against my ribs, my chest, my goddamn soul.

I shouldn’t care.

I couldn’t care.

And yet, my grip tightened around my glass again as my mind raced through every possibility.

“Someone else?” I asked, my voice carefully controlled, but I knew he could hear the edge beneath it.

She had been a mystery to me for so long, an enigma I would never get to know, never get to hold. She existed just beyond my reach, a ghost in my mind, an untouchable fantasy that had somehow become an obsession.

But now—now it seemed everything was coming into the light.

For a goddamn year, she had only been a dream, a fleeting thought in the back of my mind that I tried—and failed—to ignore. And there had been so many nights when it wasn’t even about getting off, when my thoughts weren’t just about desire or the raw, physical need to have her beneath me.

There were nights when my hand wasn’t wrapped around my c**k, stroking it to the image of her riding me, her back arching, her moans filling the space between us, her body trembling as she lost herself in pleasure. It wasn’t always about that.

Sometimes, I just lay there, staring at the ceiling, the dim glow of moonlight slipping through the blinds, casting long shadows across my room. The sheets always felt too cold, too empty, too stiff without her beside me. There were nights when all I wanted was to roll over and feel her soft body pressed against mine, to wrap my arms around her and pull her close. To bury my face in her hair, inhaling that delicious scent I had only caught a hint of that one night.

And on some nights, my imagination was so vivid, so cruel, that I could almost see her sitting on my couch when I got home from work. She’d be curled up in comfortable clothes, her hair pulled into a loose ponytail, exposing that delicate, tempting neck of hers. She’d smile at me—just a small, easy smile—and then, when I sat down, she’d scoot closer, throwing her legs over mine, settling into my side like she belonged there. Like she was mine.

It was such a simple image. And yet, it consumed me.

Yes, I wanted to f**k her. I wanted to ruin her for anyone else. I wanted to hear her scream my name, to have her completely undone beneath me, delirious with pleasure, her body trembling as she came apart only for me. I wanted to claim every inch of her, to sink into her so deep that she could never think of another man again.

But I wanted more than that.

I wanted to wake up beside her in the morning, to watch her sleep, to trace my fingers along the soft curve of her back and know that she was mine. I wanted to know what she looked like when she was lost in a book, what she sounded like when she laughed so hard she couldn’t breathe. I wanted to be the one she turned to, the one she trusted, the one she loved.

And that terrified me.

“I’m not completely sure who,” Mathéo finally answered, pulling me out of my thoughts. “But definitely someone who might have hurt her.”

His voice was quieter now, thoughtful. He tilted his head slightly as he studied her, his eyes narrowing. “It seems like she’d be that type, doesn’t it? Can’t you imagine her as a teenager, probably just as stunning as she is now, but without that hardness, without that shell around her? Maybe she fell for some guy who didn’t deserve her, only for him to hurt her. Seems like that could’ve been her past.”

I clenched my jaw.

I don’t do more.

She had told me that so clearly that night. There had been no hesitation in her voice, no room for argument. She had drawn that line in the sand, as if daring me to cross it.

There had to be a reason for that.

People didn’t just decide not to love out of nowhere.

Maybe Mathéo was right. Maybe some guy had hurt her when she was younger. Maybe he had shattered her so badly that she no longer believed herself worthy of love. Maybe she thought it was safer to keep people at a distance than to risk being broken again.

The thought made my blood boil.

If that was true—if some bastard had hurt her, if he had broken something inside of her, if he had taken her love and twisted it into something painful—then he deserved nothing but agony.

I would gladly torture him.

I would rip out his tongue for ever speaking a cruel word to her. I would gouge out his eyes for even looking at her—for possibly getting to see her naked, for witnessing something that should have only ever been mine.

I would cut off his hands because he had touched what didn’t belong to him.

And I would cut off his d**k because, even if it had never been inside of her, there was no doubt in my mind that he had thought about it. That he had imagined it, fantasized about it, jerked off to the idea of her. And for that alone, he didn’t deserve to have it attached to his body anymore.

Mathéo chuckled, shaking his head. “Or maybe it’s just the French in me,” he mused. “Maybe she just needs to find the one—like the rest of us.”

I looked over at him and realized that his gaze was no longer on Kathleen.

No.

His eyes were fixated on someone else, someone standing at the edge of the dance floor.

And suddenly, I knew.

He was pining, just like I was.

Maybe not for the same woman, but for someone.

Funny how life worked like that.

“Someone once told me,” I said, my voice quieter now, more thoughtful, “that everyone should take more chances, because that’s what makes us happier.”

Mathéo turned his head, his dark eyes locking onto mine. He studied me for a moment, clearly trying to determine if I was being serious.

A slow, knowing smile began to spread across his lips. “Are you secretly a romantic at heart, Mr. Garrett?” he asked, pointing at me like he had just uncovered some great secret. “Because that would be the greatest thing to ever happen.”

I scoffed, shaking my head. “Don’t push your luck, Boucher.”

But before he could respond, a familiar voice cut through the air—smooth, rich, velvety.

“I could never imagine Daniel as a romantic,” she said, her words laced with amusement.

“But,” she continued, her lips curving into a smirk, “he is a great dancer.”

I turned around only to find the beautiful bride, and standing right next to her was her even more beautiful bridesmaid.