Page 214 of Rescuing Ally: Part 1

Hank doesn’t let me recover.

His smirk lingers, dark and knowing, but his voice dips even lower—just for me.

“Speaking of things you’ll have to deal with…” His fingers drum lightly against the counter, casual, unaffected—the exact opposite of how I feel right now. “Gabe filled me in on your little… oversharing problem.”

My stomach tightens.

My grip on the milk pitcher wobbles.

Hank notices. Of course, he notices. His smirk curves just a little sharper.

“You’ve earned yourself a punishment, luv. And we both know Gabe isn’t one to go easy on you.” His arms stay folded, muscles flexing as he tilts his head, watching me. “The real question is—should I be merciful? Or should I make it worse?”

The air leaves my lungs.

The milk froths too fast, spilling over the edge of the pitcher, ruining my latte art. Malia bites back a laugh next to me.

“Oh my God,” she mutters under her breath. “Ally, I think you actually forgot how to function for a second.”

I snap out of it, slamming the steam wand off, shoving my composure back into place. I lift my chin, feigning unbothered confidence. “Hank, you don’t have a merciful bone in your body.”

“You’re right.” His grin deepens, pure, wicked amusement.

I exhale, rolling my shoulders, trying to ease the tension knotting in my stomach. But it doesn’t help—not when he leans in, dropping his voice to a low, sinful rasp.

“But just so you know, luv…” His fingers skim the counter, slow, deliberate. “Whatever Gabe has planned? It’s only the beginning.”

My hands falter again.

I swear I hear Malia mutter a quiet, “Dayum.”

Hank leans back like he hasn’t just completely wrecked me in public. He holds out a hand, waiting for his cappuccino like he’s the most patient, unbothered manon the planet.

I slide it toward him, my grip just a little too tight.

“Enjoy,” I say sweetly. “Don’t burn yourself.”

His smirk says it all. I’m the one who’s going to burn.

In the background, Sophia and Blake are locked in a heated, overly dramatic argument about the perfect angle for caramel drizzle, their voices rising above the chatter like they’re staging a Food Network showdown.

Walt is teasing someone from Logistics, accusing them of stealing his prized pen while grinning like it’s all a game.

The coffee shop hums with life—noisy, buzzing, overlapping dynamics somehow blending into a cohesive rhythm.

Chaos. Comfort. Controlled caffeine-fueled madness.

At first, Gabe sits beside Hank near the back, a picture of lethal relaxation. But I can feel his attention long before I meet his gaze.

When I glance up, he’s already rising. Smooth. Lethal. That kind of movement that draws eyes without trying. His gaze finds mine, already locked and loaded, moving with that deliberate power that makes it impossible to look anywhere else.

His eyes never leave mine.

He stops at the counter—right across from me—just as my phone buzzes in my pocket. Leans in just enough to make the air shift.

“I sent you something,” he murmurs, like he’s offering me sin on a silver platter.

I shouldn’t check it.

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