Chapter 2 The Claim

Lying in the algorithm report

I’d heard the stories about Zade. Everyone in this city had. The kind of stories that made women cross the street when they saw a black sedan, the kind that made men lower their voices when they mentioned his name. But stories were just stories until they had teeth.

I found his teeth in a VIP booth at a club I shouldn’t have been in, with a friend who shouldn’t have known Roman’s number, on a night that was supposed to be just another Tuesday. Tina had begged me to come. *He’s got connections*, she’d said. *One drink, that’s all. Just be seen.*

I should have stayed unseen.

The bass was so loud I felt it in my molars. The lights were low and blue, the kind that made everyone look like they were underwater. And Zade was sitting in the center of the booth like a king on a throne, legs spread, one arm draped across the back, watching the door like he’d known exactly when I’d walk through it.

He was younger than the stories suggested. Maybe thirty. Sharp jaw, sharper suit, eyes so dark they looked like holes in his face. When he stood up, the men around him shifted like a single organism, and I knew—before he’d taken a single step toward me—that I was already inside something I couldn’t walk out of.

He didn’t speak. He just moved, threading through the crowd with that unhurried predator’s gait, and when he reached me, his hand tangled in the back of my hair and he kissed me.

Not a question. Not an invitation. A claim, hard and possessive, his mouth stealing the breath from my lungs. I tried to pull back and his grip tightened, holding me in place, and the kiss went on long enough for my knees to forget how to hold me up. When he finally pulled away, he was still holding me against him, my chest pressed to his, my heart hammering so loud I was sure he could feel it.

“You are,” he said, his voice low and rough. “You just don’t feel it yet.”

“You—how dare you.”

He smirked. His thumb, calloused and warm, brushed over my lower lip, and I felt the ghost of the kiss linger. I tried to struggle and he held me tighter, the bass of the club thrumming through both of us, his dark eyes glinting with something that looked like hunger. “I dared because you’re mine. No one gets to tell me what I can and can’t do with what belongs to me.”

I glared at him. I wanted it to look like hatred. I think it came out looking like terror.

He didn’t let go of my hair. He just watched the angry flush rise on my cheeks, and then he kissed the corner of my mouth—slow, soft, completely at odds with the sharp edge of his claim. The warmth of it made my anger fizzle, just for a second, and he noticed. He always noticed.

“You’ll get used to it,” he said. “I don’t mind waiting.”

“Back off.”

He didn’t move back. His hand slid to my waist, pulling me harder against his chest, and his smirk softened into something darker, hungrier. He leaned in, his mouth brushing my neck as he murmured, “I don’t back off from what’s mine. You might as well stop fighting.”

I yanked back so hard my scalp stung. “Ew. Gross.”

His jaw tightened. But he didn’t reach for me again. He just crossed his arms over his chest and watched me, that cold, knowing look back in his eyes. He wiped his thumb over his lower lip, like he was still tasting me, and huffed a quiet laugh. “You’ll be kissing me back by the end of the week. I don’t lose.”

I didn’t have an answer for that. I was too busy trying to remember how to breathe.

Roman, one of his men—the one who’d brought Tina here—chose that moment to whistle low, nodding toward the door. Three of Zade’s men had stepped inside, broad-shouldered and silent, blocking the only exit. Tina went still in Roman’s lap, her eyes finding mine across the room.

Zade gestured to the couch beside him. “You’re not leaving tonight. So you might as well sit.”

I looked at the blocked door. I looked at Tina, who was gripping Roman’s sleeve with white-knuckled fingers. I looked at Zade, who was watching me with the patience of a man who had never been told no and survived the experience.

“No,” I said. “We’re not staying.”

His jaw ticked once. But he didn’t drop his hand. He just tilted his head, like he was surprised I’d still push him, and nodded once at the men by the door. They stepped forward, boots heavy on the carpet, hands resting on the guns at their hips.

“You don’t get a choice,” he said. “This isn’t a request.”

“I don’t make requests,” I said. “I make decisions.”

He dropped his hand. A low, dark laugh rumbled in his chest, and he stepped closer until I could feel the heat of his body again. He tilted my chin up with one finger, his gaze sharp enough to cut. “Good. I like it when you fight. It’ll make claiming you that much more fun.”

“Let’s go, Tina.”

Tina tried to yank away from Roman. He pinned her to his chest, laughing into her neck, and shook his head at me. Zade blocked my path to the door, broad shoulders cutting off all the light from the hallway. He hooked one finger through the belt loop of my jeans and tugged me back toward him.

“You’re not going anywhere.”

“Let go of me.”

He didn’t let go. He pulled me harder against him, his mouth curving into that cold, knowing smirk, his breath warm on my neck. His hand splayed low on my back, holding me still. “I’ve already told you. You’re mine. I don’t let go of what’s mine.”

I wanted to knee him. I wanted to scream. But my body had gone liquid and useless, and the worst part was that he knew it.

Roman stood up, shifting Tina off his lap and nudging her toward me. Zade’s brow lifted in surprise. Roman pulled a cigarette from his pocket, lighting it slow, and blew a ring of smoke toward the ceiling. “C’mon, boss. Let the girls simmer a little. They’ll come back on their own.”

Tina hesitated, glancing back at Roman. He just smirked and waved her off. She hurried to my side, grabbing my arm so hard her nails bit into my skin.

Zade didn’t block the door this time. He leaned against the wall and watched me go, his voice low and sure enough to follow me out into the night. “I’ll see you tomorrow. Don’t think I’ll forget.”

I didn’t look back. But I felt his gaze on my spine all the way to the car.

---

I didn’t sleep. I lay in my childhood bed, staring at the ceiling, replaying the kiss until I wanted to claw my own skin off. The worst part wasn’t that he’d taken it. The worst part was that some small, shameful part of me had let him.

By morning, I’d convinced myself it was over. A one-time thing. A predator marking territory and moving on. He’d find another girl to fixate on, and I’d go back to my life, and the stories about Zade would go back to being just stories.

I was pouring coffee in my kitchen when the doorbell rang.

My father wasn’t home. He was always gone by seven, off to whatever business deal kept him in suits and out of my life. I was alone in the house, in my bare feet and an old t-shirt, and the hand that reached for the gun tucked in my waistband moved before my brain caught up.

I pulled the door open with my left hand, my right hovering near the grip.

Zade was standing on my porch.

Suit crisp. Hair dark. A small black box in his hand, the kind that could hold a ring or a bullet. He smiled, cold and sure.

“You said I wouldn’t see you today.”

“What the hell are you doing in my house?”

He stepped inside before I could stop him. The door clicked shut behind him, sealing us in together, and he set the black box on my kitchen counter like he owned the place. He nodded at the gun I’d pulled, unafraid, and tilted his head.

“I came to pick up what’s mine. You forgot I was coming today.”

“I am not going anywhere with you.”

He walked toward me slow. His hands stayed at his sides. He didn’t reach for his own weapon. He just stopped when he was close enough to touch the barrel of my gun with one finger, pushing it gently aside.

“Your father already knew I was coming. He left a note.” He paused, letting that sink in. “You really think he’d hide you from me?”

I didn’t lower the gun. My finger tightened on the trigger, the metal warm from my grip. He just smiled, cold and sure, and reached past me to pull a folded piece of paper off the fridge behind my shoulder.

He held it out to me. The paper was crisp. My father’s scrawled handwriting stared back at me when I glanced down.

*Zaida—*

*Mr. Kessler is a friend of the family. Please extend him every courtesy. I’ll be home late.*

*—Dad*

The gun wavered. My hand started to shake.

“He did exactly what I told him to,” Zade said.

I stared at the note. At my father’s handwriting. At the neat, casual way he’d sold me out, like I was a business arrangement he’d already signed.

“...fuck.”

Zade chuckled low. His hand slid up my wrist, gentle but firm, prying the gun from my loose grip. He set it on the counter beside his black box, and then he tilted my chin up with his thumb and pressed a slow, warm kiss to my mouth.

My knees went weak. My hands stayed at my sides. I didn’t push him away.

“Relax,” he murmured against my lips. “I’m not gonna hurt what’s mine.”

He pulled back just enough to look at me, his dark eyes searching my face, his thumb still resting on my jaw. I should have told him to leave. I should have picked up the gun and aimed it at his chest and pulled the trigger until the stories about Zade stopped being stories.

But my father’s note was still in my hand. And the black box was still on the counter. And the kiss was still burning on my mouth like a brand.

So I stood there in my bare feet, in my own kitchen, and I didn’t say a word.

His hand slid down to my waist, gentle now, almost tender. “You’ll get used to it,” he said again. “I have time.”

I looked at him. At the sharp jaw and the darker eyes and the cold, sure smile. At the box I hadn’t opened and the future I hadn’t asked for.

“You’ll be kissing me back by the end of the week,” he’d said last night.

I thought about the way my body had gone still when he kissed me just now. The way my hands had stayed at my sides. The way the fight had drained out of me like water from a broken cup.

The way I hadn’t pulled away.

Some part of me wanted to run. The rest of me stayed very, very still.

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