Page 3 of Protecting Lanie

The sound of her glass shattering against the side of his head interrupted him. Lanie didn’t hesitate. When his grip faltered, she twisted free and bolted for the door. She could hear him cursing behind her, the thud of his footsteps growing louder as he chased her down the hallway.

“Lanie! Don’t you dare...”

She didn’t look back. Her bare feet pounded against the linoleum as she sprinted down the stairs, her heart pounding like a drum. She burst out into the chilly night air, the sharp wind biting at her skin. Her only thought was torun. Run and don’t stop.

She darted into the shadows of an alley, her breath coming in ragged gasps. She could still hear his voice echoing in her head, promising retribution. But he wouldn’t follow her. Not if what he said about the cartel was true. If his boss, Daryl DeLuca, found out Vinnie had gone rogue, it would mean more than a scolding. Vinnie was as much a pawn as she had been.

Still, she couldn’t take any chances. She had to disappear, to vanish so completely that even Vinnie wouldn’t dare come after her.

She pressed a hand to her chest, willing herself to calm down. “Think, Lanie,” she whispered. “Think.”

Her gaze fell on a bus schedule taped to a nearby pole. Chicago. It wasn’t far, and it was big enough to get lost in. A spark of hope ignited in her chest, faint but insistent.

The sound of a door slamming nearby jolted her into motion. She darted out of the alley and toward the bus station, her determination drowning out the fear.

As the city lights blurred around her, Lanie swore to herself she’d survive. She’d start over. And she’d never let anyone control her again.

CHAPTER 2

LANIE

Present Day

The scent of vanilla and cinnamon wrapped around Lanie like a warm embrace, the familiar comfort of sugar and butter melting into the air as she worked. The kitchen at Club Southside was a world of controlled chaos, but she found solace in the rhythm of it—measuring, mixing, kneading. It kept her hands busy, her mind occupied.

And that was exactly what she needed.

She pressed her palm flat against the cool marble countertop, exhaling slowly before reaching for the piping bag. The macarons had to be perfect—delicate shells with just the right amount of give, filled with rich, silky ganache. There wasn’t room for mistakes. Not here. Not when perfection was the only thing she had control over anymore.

“Lanie, you’re gonna wear a hole in the damn counter,” Tessa, the club’s head bartender, teased as she breezed in, snagging a chocolate truffle off a tray.

Lanie startled, her grip tightening around the bag. “God, Tess. At least let me finish plating before you steal them.”

Tessa winked, popping the truffle into her mouth with a satisfied hum. “You know I can’t help myself. Besides, don’t pretend like you’re not stress-baking.”

“I’m not...” Lanie stopped, pressing her lips together. Tessa wasn’t wrong. The constant need to keep moving, to stay productive, to focus on anything but the past… it was a habit she hadn’t been able to shake.

Tessa gave her a knowing look, but before she could say anything, Logan, one of the club’s Doms, leaned through the kitchen’s side door. “Lanie, need those pastries for the VIP lounge, like, five minutes ago.”

“On it.” Lanie quickly arranged the last row of treats onto a silver tray. With practiced ease, she lifted it and turned...

And slammed straight into something solid.

The tray tipped, the delicate pastries cascading like falling dominoes. Some tumbled to the floor, others landed against the broad chest of the man she’d crashed into, smearing buttercream and ganache across his bare, sculpted torso.

Lanie sucked in a sharp breath, heart lurching as she looked up—way up—into the most commanding face she’d ever seen.

Archer Vaughn.

She knew who he was, of course. Everyone at Club Southside did. The man carried an air of authority so thick it seemed to have settled over him like a shroud. He too was a Dom at the club; he moved through the space like he owned it—calm, controlled, unreadable. His presence sent a ripple through any room he entered, and tonight was no different.

Except now he was standing there, chest dusted with powdered sugar, golden-brown macarons sticking to his chest, and the full force of his gaze pinned on her.

Lanie’s pulse skittered like hummingbird wings.

“Oh, God,” she blurted, mortified. “I...I’m so sorry...”

Archer didn’t move. Didn’t flinch. He simply looked at her, his eyes dark and steady, assessing in a way that made her feel bare despite the layers of her chef’s coat.

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