Page 35 of Surrender

I shake my head with a faint smile. “That’s all right. Thank you, though.”

With a perfunctory nod, he buckles in and starts the car.

While I sip my champagne, I sit back and gaze at the passing city as Hugh drives me to the restaurant. I don’t know where it is, so I don’t know how long it will take to get there. I suppose I should have asked more questions.

To be safe, I open my purse to grab my phone so I can text Sabrina my location just in case I go missing.

When I light up the screen, I see I have a new text message from a number my phone doesn’t recognize.

The message reads, “How was your day?”

A frown flickers across my brow as I text back, “Who is this?”

“Your favorite Viking.”

My eyebrows rise. “Alexander Dreymon? How did you get my number, and does your girlfriend know about this?”

“Very funny,” he texts back.

I laugh because I somehow doubt he’s amused. “How did you get my number?”

“I have my ways,” he answers. “You didn’t answer my question.”

I have to glance up at his first message to remember what it was. “My day has been trash. Yours?”

“Not bad,” his next text reads. “Would’ve been better if I were joining you for dinner.”

His comment causes my guard to rise. “I have it on good authority you won’t be. That’s the only reason I got in the car.”

“That’s correct,” he assures me. “You won’t be seeing me this evening.”

The surge of anxiety that spiked a moment ago drops. Even though it’s absurd, I find myself typing back, “Thank you,” because I know he could have easily been lying to set me up. Evidently, Silvan has no problem forcing his will on others, and he made his desires clear enough last night about wanting to have dinner with me.

I know there were other things he wanted from me, too.

The memory surfaces of when he practically had it. His cock was inside me… just the tip, but all he had to do was push past that fragile barrier…

My skin flushes from thinking about last night.

Clearing my throat, I try to shake off the memory as I look back down at the phone.

His last text reads, “You’re welcome.”

As if he’s actually granting me a privilege.

I suppose he is.

“Thank you for dinner,” I type back, my manners getting the best of me. “It was loud at my apartment, and there wasn’t much to eat there anyway.”

“Anytime,” he says. “Though, typically, you’ll have to accept me as part of the deal,” he adds with a winky emoji.

I never plan to accept an invitation from him again, but there’s no point in telling him that now.

“Where’s Hugh taking me?”

“A restaurant my family has owned since the Roaring Twenties,” he answers.

“Wow, that’s a long time. So you come from a restaurateur family?”

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