Page 69 of Dating Goals
“I don’t want to dance with you,” I whisper fiercely.
“Play along until I deem it safe,” he orders, his eyes scanning the room over my shoulder.
I glance across the ballroom and spot Griffin. He’s noticed us. His normally cheerful face has hardened into something I’ve never seen before. Jaw tight, eyes narrowed, brows drawn together in a severe line. He’s already cutting through the crowd, moving with purpose in our direction.
Even from here, I can see the intensity in his eyes. The look on his face makes my stomach flip. It’s protective, fierce, nothing like the playful, quote-spouting goalie who chops wood without a shirt on.
This is someone else entirely.
“My friend is coming,” I warn the man. “And he doesn’t look happy.”
The man follows my gaze, his posture stiffening. “That complicates things.”
“Good,” I snap. “Now let me go.”
The man stops dancing abruptly, his eyes scanning the room. “Listen carefully. There are four OMBRA operatives in this room.”
“I don’t even know what OMBRA is!”
“Keep your voice down,” he hisses. Then, with surprising gentleness, he adds, “Come. I can get you out safely.”
He’s guiding me away from the dance floor, his hand firmly around my upper arm as we move toward a side hallway. I glance back and see Griffin pushing past a cluster of laughing guests, his eyes locked on us.
“Stop manhandling me,” I snap, trying to wrench my arm free. “I can walk on my own.”
His grip loosens slightly, but he doesn’t let go as we move down a dimly lit corridor. “I’m trying to save your life, Miss Gisler.”
“I just want to go home,” I say, my voice smaller than I intend. “Alone. Without any man. Without any of…whatever this is.”
He stops at an intersection of hallways, checking both directions before turning to me. For the first time, I notice the tiny scar bisecting his left eyebrow, the only imperfection in his otherwise immaculate appearance.
“There’s a service elevator at the end of this corridor,” he says, pointing to our right. “Take it down to the ground floor, then follow the exit signs to the staff parking area. There will be a black car waiting. The driver knows where to take you.”
“I’m not getting in a stranger’s car.”
He sighs. “Fair enough.” He tugs me down a different hallway. “This way.”
I stumble after him, my heels clicking on marble as we move deeper into the mansion. The music fades completely, replaced by an eerie silence broken only by our footsteps and my slightly panicked breathing.
“Who are you?” I demand as he pulls me around another corner.
“Wilde,” he says without looking back. That doesn’t answer my question at all.
We reach an ornate wooden door at the end of a hallway lined with oil paintings of stern-looking men in hunting attire. Wilde pulls a small device from his pocket, runs it along the door frame, then nods to himself before turning the handle.
“After you,” he says, gesturing me inside.
“No way. You first.”
He smirks, then steps into what appears to be an opulent study. Floor-to-ceiling bookshelves line the walls, interrupted only by a massive stone fireplace. A heavy mahogany desk dominates the center of the room, surrounded by leather chairs.
“Nice place to hide a body,” I mutter, following him reluctantly.
Wilde moves directly to a bookshelf, running his fingers along the spines. “Malcolm Chase likes his secrets,” hesays, pulling on a specific volume. Something about financial markets. “And his escape routes.”
The bookshelf swings outward with a soft click, revealing a dark passageway beyond.
I take an instinctive step backward. “Oh, no. No way.”
