Stalked By The Mad Dog Nephew

Rain slashed against the tinted windows of the limousine, a rhythmic drumming that matched the pounding in Avery Preston's temples. She didn't move to open the door immediately. Instead, she sat in the climate-controlled silence, staring at the neon sign of the Vanguard Club blurring through the wet glass. Her fingers, manicured to a pale, harmless nude, trembled slightly in her lap.

It was a practiced tremor.

"Mrs. Garrison?" the driver asked, his eyes meeting hers in the rearview mirror. "Do you need an umbrella?"

"No, thank you, Charles." Her voice was soft, barely a whisper. It was the voice everyone expected from her. The voice of a woman who was slowly fading away, consumed by nerves and a constitution too fragile for the harsh realities of New York City.

Avery pulled her coat tighter around her throat, stepping out into the deluge. The cold dampness bit at her skin, but she didn't hurry. She adjusted her posture, hunching her shoulders just enough to look small, defenseless. The bouncer at the velvet rope took one look at her pale face and the expensive cut of her soaking coat and unhooked the barrier without a word.

She stepped inside.

The bass hit her chest first, a physical thud that vibrated through her ribs. The air inside was thick, a cloying mixture of expensive cologne, stale cigarette smoke, and the metallic tang of spilled alcohol. Avery navigated the crowd, keeping her eyes downcast, playing the part of the terrified wife searching for a wayward relative.

The bartender, a man with tired eyes and a heavy beard, didn't need to ask who she was looking for. He simply jerked his chin toward the far corner of the room, a VIP booth shrouded in shadow.

Avery walked toward the darkness.

Glass crunched under her heels. The sound was sharp, distinct even over the music. She stopped at the edge of the booth.

Brandon Garrison was sprawled across the leather banquette like a fallen king. His shirt was unbuttoned halfway, revealing a chest sheen with sweat. His knuckles were split open, fresh blood trickling down his fingers to stain the pristine white tablecloth. He was laughing, a low, guttural sound that had cleared the immediate area of anyone sane.

A waitress, terrified and holding a dustpan, tried to approach the mess of shattered tumblers on the floor.

"Leave it," Brandon snarled, not looking at her. He waved a hand aggressively, sending a half-empty bottle spinning off the table. It crashed against the wall. The waitress flinched and scurried away.

Avery took a breath, holding it in her lungs until it burned. She stepped into his line of sight, clutching her purse to her stomach as if it were a shield.

"Brandon," she said. Her voice wavered perfectly.

He froze. The laughter died in his throat. Slowly, agonizingly slowly, he turned his head. His eyes were bloodshot, wild, the pupils blown wide. He looked like a man who had been running for days, or perhaps hunting.

A slow, dark smirk spread across his face as he recognized her.

"Aunt Avery," he drawled. The title dripped with venom. "Did Augustus send his little nurse to fetch me?"

"Please, Brandon." Avery took a step closer, careful to avoid the glass. "It's late. You're bleeding. Let's go home."

He stood up.

The movement was sudden, violent. He towered over her, six feet and two inches of coiled muscle and drunken rage. He kicked the heavy oak table aside as if it were made of cardboard. The crash silenced the nearby conversations.

Avery didn't back down, though every instinct in her body screamed at her to run. She couldn't break character. Not here. Not yet.

He cornered her against the high back of the leather booth. The smell of him-whiskey, copper blood, and a feverish, overwhelming body heat-invaded her senses. He leaned down, invading her personal space until his nose was inches from hers.

"Home?" he whispered, his voice rough like gravel. "To that mausoleum? To your husband who is currently balls-deep in his secretary?"

Avery flinched. It was a reflex she allowed herself. "Stop it, Brandon."

"You're such a dutiful little doll, aren't you?" His hand shot out, grabbing her wrist. His grip was iron-tight, bruising. He pulled her hand away from her chest, exposing her. "Do you even have a pulse, Avery? Or are you just plastic all the way through?"

His face moved closer. The line between aggression and desire blurred terrifyingly. He was looking at her mouth, his eyes dropping to her lips with a hunger that had no place between a nephew and his aunt by marriage.

"Let's see if you break," he murmured.

He leaned in to kiss her. It wasn't a kiss of affection; it was a weapon. A tool of humiliation meant to shatter the fragile reality she clung to.

Survival instinct overrode the script.

Avery's free hand moved before she registered the decision. She slapped him.

The sound was a sharp crack, cutting through the heavy bass of the club music. Her palm stung, a burning sensation that traveled up her arm. She gasped, her chest heaving, realizing instantly that she had slipped. The terrified, submissive Avery Preston would never strike a Garrison.

Silence stretched between them, heavy and suffocating.

Brandon didn't recoil. He didn't get angry.

He slowly lifted his hand to his cheek, touching the red mark blooming there. And then, he smiled. It wasn't the mocking smirk from before. It was a genuine, dark smile that didn't reach his eyes.

"There she is," he whispered, almost reverently. "Why do you stay with a man who doesn't even want you, Avery? When you have fire like that?"

Avery regained her composure, pulling the mask back into place with a sheer force of will. She yanked her wrist from his grip, rubbing the spot where his fingers had dug in.

"Get in the car, Brandon," she ordered, her voice trembling not with fear, but with a suppressed fury she couldn't let him see. She turned her back on him, walking away without checking if he would follow.

She didn't need to look. She could feel him behind her. He followed her out of the club, not like a chastised relative, but like a predator stalking its prey.