Chapter 3

Daphne's forehead throbbed. She blinked against the dark spots dancing across her vision, her hands still bunched in the expensive fabric of the stranger's coat.

"Don't you have eyes?" she snapped, her words slurring slightly around the edges.

Above her, the chest rumbled. A low, gravelly sound slipped out—not of anger, but of amusement.

"I could ask you the same thing, Miss Bradford."

The voice was deep, cultured, and carried the kind of quiet, absolute authority that made the hairs on Daphne's arms stand straight up.

She froze.

Slowly, Daphne forced her chin up.

The man standing over her was tall—easily six-foot-two—with broad, imposing shoulders that blocked out what little light the sconce provided. He wore a charcoal bespoke three-piece suit cut with surgical precision. Above a razor-sharp jawline and high cheekbones sat a pair of eyes as dark and impenetrable as midnight on the Atlantic. Over his right brow bone, a faint, pale scar broke the smooth skin, giving his aristocratic face a subtle, dangerous edge.

Bennet.

Daphne's lungs seized. The alcohol in her bloodstream instantly turned to ice water.

She stared at the man whose name she had just screamed to an entire bar five minutes ago. He was holding a lowball glass of neat bourbon in his right hand. His left hand was tucked casually into his trouser pocket.

He didn't move away. Instead, he leaned down slightly, stepping into her space until she was completely trapped between the broad expanse of his chest and the brick wall behind her.

"Three months?" he murmured.

The words were spoken so softly they were practically an exhale, but they landed on Daphne's ears like a gunshot.

Her pupils dilated in sheer, unadulterated horror.

He heard.

He was standing in the corridor the entire time.

"I..." Daphne choked, the sharpness that usually defined her tongue entirely deserting her. She pressed her back flat against the cold bricks, desperate to put even an inch of distance between them.

Bennet took a half-step forward. The polished leather toe of his Oxford shoe gently brushed against the tip of her toes.

On his left wrist, a custom Patek Philippe tourbillon glinted in the dim light. The watch alone cost more than her father's entire garage of luxury cars.

"To take me down?" Bennet continued, his gaze drifting lazily over her flushed cheeks, down to the trembling hollow of her throat, and back up to her wide, amber eyes. A tiny, mocking smile played at the corner of his thin lips. "And make me beg to sign the license?"

Daphne swallowed hard. Her pulse was hammering so loud she was certain he could hear it. Every survival instinct she had inherited from her mother screamed at her to run, but the Bradford pride-stubborn, arrogant, and foolish-refused to let her cower.

She forced her chin up, glaring at him through her haze of terror and intoxication. "It was a joke. I was drunk. Don't flatter yourself, Mr. Knight."

Bennet tilted his head. He brought the glass of bourbon to his lips, took a slow, measured sip, and let his eyes linger on her mouth.

"A joke," he repeated smoothly. He lowered the glass, his breath washing over her cheek—warm, smelling of oak and liquor. "Pity. I was rather looking forward to your performance."

The sheer audacity of the line, delivered with such absolute, predatory calm, sent a shiver straight down Daphne's spine.

"You're out of your mind," she whispered.

She shoved his shoulder with all the strength she had left.

Bennet didn't budge an inch, but the ice cubes in his glass clinked sharply. Taking advantage of the brief opening, Daphne ducked under his arm, squeezed through the narrow gap between him and the wall, and bolted.

She didn't look back. She abandoned the idea of the restroom entirely, practically sprinting down the dark hallway on bare feet.

Behind her, Bennet remained where he was. He didn't turn around. He simply lifted his glass again, his thumb slowly stroking the cold, condensation-slick rim of the tumbler, his dark eyes watching the shadow of her retreat fade into the noise of the bar.

Daphne burst back into the main lounge, her chest heaving as if she had just outrun a pack of wolves.

"Daphne?" Hazel called out, waving from the booth. "What happened to you? You look like you saw a ghost."

Daphne grabbed a glass of ice water from the table and downed it in three massive gulps, spilling half of it down the front of her silk blouse. Her teeth were chattering.

"We have to leave," Daphne gasped, grabbing her trench coat from the booth. "Now. Right now."

Averie looked alarmed, instantly setting her drink down. "What is it? Did Destin follow us here?"

"No," Daphne said, her voice cracking. "Bennet is here. In the hallway. He... he heard everything."

Hazel's jaw dropped. "Wait-what? The whole three months thing?"

"Every single word," Daphne groaned, burying her face in her hands. "I'm going to throw myself into the East River. Pack your bags, we're leaving the country."

"Daph, calm down," Hazel said, though a wicked grin was spreading across her face. "That's actually iconic. What did he say? Did he—"

"Where do you think you're going?"

A voice like cracking ice sliced through the jazz music from directly behind their booth.

Daphne's spine turned to solid granite.

The color drained from her face faster than it had in the hallway. Slowly, dreading every millimeter of the movement, she turned her head.

Standing two paces away was a man in a dark, charcoal trench coat that smelled distinctly of antiseptic and rain. He stood six-foot-three, with silver-threaded dark hair cut into a strict military fade, and eyes so cold and gray they looked like two slabs of wet slate.

His right hand was casually resting inside his coat pocket, his index finger rhythmically tapping against his thigh.

Chaim Payne.

Chief Medical Examiner for the City of New York.

And her mother's terrifying, merciless older brother.