“Down here,” St. Clare yells back at me, and I’m nowhere near fit enough for this. My lungs are burning, and I’m wearing jeans, for fuck’s sake. Being alive to aid him long enough for my jeans to chafe is pure luck, but I’d really like a bit more luck to be able to get out of these damn things and catch my breath.

St. Clare leads me into the bar of his nightclub and shouts at some random guy vaping to get security on the door. I don’t wait long enough to see if he does, but we follow the route I took to his office last night, down the hall to the stairs and up them. My thighs protest the climb, and my speed slows down significantly. If anyone ever did want to kill me, all they’d need to do is chase me up some stairs.

We reach St. Clare’s office, and I hesitate about entering, finally some self-preservation kicking in now that we’re out of immediate danger.

Maybe this is a trap. Maybe he’s leading me here on purpose. Maybe⁠—

This time, he grabs my arms and hauls me through the doorway after him, so hard that I knock into him and we both almost go over.

“Watch yourself,” he pants, shoving me away as he slams and locks the door behind us.

I hunch over, hands on my knees, trying to get oxygen to my—well, everywhere—and what happened finally sinks in.

“Shit. I think I almost died.”

St. Clare shoots me a glare. “Join the club.”

Then a third voice answers us. “And while you’re doing that, why don’t you fill me in on where the fuck you’ve been?”

CHAPTER TEN

ST. CLARE

Lars is going to kill me. Which means I’m now in a room with two people who want me dead, so that’s fun for me.

I didn’t stop and think that through when Perry was shot at. Instead, the need to get him out of danger kicked in, and then we were running and …

“I dropped my coffee,” I realize too late.

“It’s okay,” Perry gets out between wheezing breaths. “I made that one shit anyway.”

“You owe me a refund.”

He scoffs. “Think saving your life covers it.”

It takes me a second to follow what he’s implying. “Wait. You think they were after me?”

“Duh.” He finally straightens and paces to one side of my office and back, hands planted on his hips. He’s still wearing his Toasty Roast apron and a shirt that’s ratty, thin, and a touch too tight. Then Perry reaches between his legs and tugs at the crotch of his jeans. “Got myself chafed, thanks to you.”

“Thanks to me? Would you have preferred that I left you there to get your head blown off?”

“Not my head they were aiming for.”