No Escape From His Dangerous Love

Hardie sat behind the mahogany desk in his private clinic. His long fingers turned the page of a patient file. His eyes were cold and focused.

His phone vibrated against the wood. A text from Julian Thorne lit up the screen.

Prescott's party is getting completely out of hand. A buddy of mine just forwarded this to the group chat from the Black Rabbit. Your family's little stray is there and it looks bad.

Hardie frowned. He tapped the video attachment.

The screen played. Arlene stood in a dark room. Blood dripped from her mouth. She chugged a bottle of red liquid, gagged, and collapsed like a broken doll onto the floor.

Hardie's pupils dilated. The expensive fountain pen in his hand snapped in two. Black ink splattered across the pristine medical records.

His breathing turned ragged. The thick sheet of ice he usually used to suppress his volatile emotions shattered instantly. A terrifying, violent fire erupted from the deepest depths of his chest, a raging inferno that he himself feared.

That was his girl. The girl he watched from the shadows. The girl no one was allowed to touch.

He stood up so fast his leather chair crashed backward onto the floor. The sound echoed in the quiet office.

He grabbed his phone and dialed Julian. His voice was absolute zero. "Which room?"

Julian stammered, caught off guard. "Man, it's just a joke. She's in the back VIP room. Prescott's got his whole crew in there..."

Hardie ended the call. He walked out of the office.

A nurse in the hallway opened her mouth to speak. She took one look at Hardie's eyes and stepped back against the wall, terrified.

He stepped into the elevator and punched the button for the parking garage. His knuckles were bone white.

He sprinted to the Aston Martin. The engine roared to life.

The tires screamed against the concrete as he sped out of the garage.

He dialed his head of security while weaving through traffic. "Get me the floor plan for the VIP rooms at the Black Rabbit. Now."

The image of Arlene hitting the floor played on a loop in his brain. It felt like a knife twisting in his gut.

He remembered her face in the alley. She lied to him. She went to a slaughterhouse instead of asking him for help.

The self-hatred burned his throat. He had let her walk in there.

He slammed his hand against the steering wheel at a red light. The horn blared.

His phone rang. "Sir, Mitch Kozlowski runs security for Prescott there."

"Tell Mitch he has three minutes to get her out of that room, or I will burn his club to the ground with him inside."

Hardie threw the phone onto the passenger seat.

The light turned green. He floored the accelerator.

She tore up his card. She would rather die than owe him.

The thought made his blood boil. He looked in the rearview mirror. His eyes were bloodshot. He looked like a murderer.

The Black Rabbit's neon sign glowed ahead. He had sat in the alley across the street and watched her walk through those doors. Now he wasn't waiting anymore.

Hardie didn't slow down. He drove the Aston Martin straight up onto the sidewalk, slamming the brakes right in front of the main doors.