Page 191 of By His Rule

“Your place is beside me,” I say simply before turning my attention to the screen in front of me that’s showing our flight time.

Her eyes burn into the side of my face, and I sense that she has a million and one things to say, but none of them make it past her lips.

45

LORELEI

Iwatch as Kian marches through the reception of The Regency. I want to say he moves with the authority of a man who owns the place, but let’s be honest, he literally does.

Everyone around me senses it too, because I swear, every set of eyes—both male and female—turns to watch him.

The man sitting behind the reception desk he’s set his sights on legit looks like he’s about thirty seconds from shitting his pants. It’s funny as hell, but also…I get it.

Kian Callahan can be one intimidating motherfucker when he wants to be.

I knew I was in for a whole world of pain when I booked the cheap airline seat and then reserved him a budget hotel room. Not that any room in a Callahan Hotel could ever really be considered as such. I’m not sure any of the men in charge of this empire know the meaning of the word.

I was hardly surprised when he admitted on the drive here that he’d called ahead and “fixed” my little mishap.

I smirk, just thinking about the great Kian Callahan squeezing his big body into a small, twin-sized bed.

It’s almost a shame that he’s figured me out, because as much as I’d hate to share that twin room with him, it would be funny as fuck.

I watch him at a distance as he talks to the young guy with the pale face. Even from here, I swear I can see his hands trembling.

I’ve no idea if he prewarned the staff here that he was coming, but something tells me that every single person on the payroll will know thirty seconds after he walks away from that desk.

I wonder if they’ll have time to give his room a once-over before he unlocks it and walks inside.

After a few short words, Kian spins around with room keycards in his hand and a scowl on his face.

My stomach knots.

Did that guy just lose his job?

“What’s wrong?” I ask the second he approaches me.

“Nothing. Come on,” he demands, snagging his bag from beside me, throwing it over his shoulder, and grabbing both of our cases before he marches toward the elevators.

Not wanting to be left behind, I take off after him.

The second we’re inside the car, he hits the button for the top floor—of course—and we begin to rise through the building.

“Why are you scared of elevators?” he asks simply, distracting me from the classical music that fills the space.

“I’m not scared of elevators, per se. I’m claustrophobic. Or I used to be.”

“Used to be?” he echoes.

“I thought I’d worked through it. Apparently, I’m not quite there.”

“Why are you scared of enclosed spaces?”

Thankfully, the elevator comes to a stop and the doors open, allowing me to escape the question. There is no way I’m discussing my childhood with him.

Despite not knowing where I’m going, I take a chance and turn left.

I hear him following me, and I take that as a good sign that I made the right decision.

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