She took another step back, clutching her phone like a lifeline. "I should go."
"Of course." I smiled, the expression calculated to appear non-threatening. "It was a pleasure seeing you again, Grace."
The use of her first name was deliberate—a reminder that I knew her, that I'd been thinking about her. That I'd remembered every detail of our brief encounter.
She didn't respond, just turned and walked quickly toward the coffee shop, her posture rigid with tension.
I watched her go, savoring the moment. She was afraid, yes—but she was also intrigued. I'd seen it in her eyes, in the way she'd lingered despite her better judgment.
Fear and fascination. The perfect combination.
I returned to The Crimson Room, taking a seat at the bar where I could see through the window to the coffee shop across the street. Grace was at the counter, ordering her usual black coffee, her movements slightly jerky with residual adrenaline.
She glanced over her shoulder, scanning the street outside, looking for me. When she couldn't see me, her shoulders relaxed slightly.
False security. The most dangerous kind.
I sipped my whiskey, watching as she took her coffee to the small table by the window. She pulled out her laptop, attempting to focus on her work, but her eyes kept drifting to the street, searching.
For me.
The realization sent a surge of satisfaction through me. I was already in her head. Already disrupting her carefully ordered world.
It wasn't enough. Not nearly enough.
But it was a beginning.
My phone buzzed again. Luca. Again. This time I answered.
"What?" I kept my voice low, my eyes never leaving Grace.
"We have a problem," Luca said, his tone tense. "The Irish are making moves at the docks. Three of our shipments have been redirected."
Business. Always business.
"Handle it," I replied, watching as Grace tucked a strand of hair behind her ear, her brow furrowed in concentration. "I'm in the middle of something."
"Rafe, this isn't something I can just?—"
"I said handle it." My voice hardened, leaving no room for argument. "I'll be back at the estate in two hours."
I ended the call before he could respond, slipping the phone back into my pocket. The family business was important, yes. The war with the O'Sullivans was important.
But this—watching Grace, planning our next encounter, imagining the moment when she would finally understand that she belonged to me—this was vital.
Across the street, Grace closed her laptop and gathered her things, preparing to leave earlier than her usual schedule. My presence had disrupted her routine. Good.
I finished my whiskey and stood, leaving another generous tip. As I stepped outside, I caught her eye through the window of the coffee shop. She froze, coffee cup halfway to her lips, her gaze locked with mine across the distance.
I smiled and raised my hand in a small salute before turning and walking away. Let her wonder. Let her worry. Let her think about me when she should be thinking about her studies, her family, her carefully constructed future.
Let her feel what it's like to be hunted.
Because the hunt had only just begun.
5
GRACE
