Page 119 of Daring You

“Office,” Yang barks. “Now.”

He clicks off before I have a chance to say anything further.

Ben, dressed in only suit pants and looking for all the world like he wants to be licked, says, “And?”

“Looks like my first stop is Yang’s office.”

“Then I’m coming with you.”

I don’t argue. I don’t want Ben out of my sight any more than he wants me away from him. Physically, we’re having the best time of our lives. But in reality, there’s a very real danger surrounding him. And I don’t, for one second, want to be somewhere else if that danger ever comes into fruition. Beside him is where I’ll be.

“Let’s go,” I say once I pull on a green, long-sleeved wool dress.

We find our coats, take the elevator, and burst out into the chill where a car waits for us.

The drive is silent, mainly because Ben and I are catching our breaths, and both of us are probably going through a variety of scenarios in our heads.

When we arrive, Ben steps out first and holds the door open for me. He takes my hand as we walk.

“I’ll be waiting right outside, in the lobby, if you need me.”

I nod. Nerves wrapped their scaled fingers around my throat during the drive. It’s been easy to dismiss the fear during sex. Not so easy when facing my boss, who knows exactly who Ben is, and who is friends with the man who more than likely ordered a hit on his parents.

We step into the elevators, and then onto my floor.

I let go of his hand. “I’ll let you know when I—”

We both freeze at the same time.

“Ben,” I whisper harshly.

Chavez is sitting on one of our plush waiting lounges, casually reading the day’s news on one of our complimentary tablets.

He hasn’t noticed us. I recover enough to move before he does, pulling at Ben’s arm, but Ben’s a statue. A cold, gray, solid statue of stone as he stares down Enrique Chavez.

“Ben,” I say through my teeth. “Move. Now.”

He blinks, breaking out of the bear-trap hold of walking into the arms of a murderer. “I’ll wait right here.”

“No, you won’t—”

“No arguments,” he says, his voice so full of grit I barely hear it. “I’m not running away.”

“I…” Oh, fuck.

There really isn’t a choice. If he leaves, it’s obvious. If he stays, he could say something to Chavez, two decades worth of anger and resentment coming out within the cream and gold-lined walls of a midtown law firm.

Did Yang orchestrate this?

That thought, and only that thought, barrels me forward. “I’m getting to the bottom of this.”

Before I leave, I squeeze his hand, side-eyeing Chavez, who still hasn’t looked up.

Ben squeezes back.

I nod to the receptionist on my way past, my heels a storm of sound against the floor as I find Yang’s office, ignore his paralegal’s cry of, “Miss Hayes, wait, please!” and push open the glass door to his office.

Yang leans back from his seat behind his desk, steepliing his fingers. He says dryly, “Come on in, Miss Hayes.”

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