Chapter Thirty-Eight
The restaurant Jake had chosen was tucked away in the historic downtown district, a world away from the neon-lit dive bars and gravel parking lots of the Iron Reapers' territory. It was a dimly lit, upscale bistro with exposed brick walls, soft jazz humming from invisible speakers, and the rich scent of garlic, rosemary, and expensive wine hanging in the air.
As we were led to a quiet booth in the back, I felt a tiny, lingering flutter of nerves. But the moment Jake slid onto the leather seat opposite me, those nerves shifted into something else entirely.
Without his heavy leather vest and the constant, vigilant stance of the Vice President, he was breathtaking. The warm amber light of the candle flickering between us caught the sharp angles of his jawline and the i
