Once You’re Mine: A Dark Stalker Romance (Possessing Her

Harper gives my fingers a squeeze. “Are you sure you don’t want a cake pop?” When I shake my head again, she sighs and retracts her hand. “Fine.”

The door opens. Out of habit, we swing our gazes in that direction. And my day goes from awful to complete shit.

I narrow my eyes while Harper’s widens. “Who is that?” she asks, her voice near breathless.

“Another asshole in a trench coat.”

The man is dressed in a tailored, navy-blue business suit that’s perfectly fitted to his tall, athletic frame. His crisp white shirt accentuates his broad shoulders, while the silk tie knotted at his throat emphasizes the length of his torso. Over the suit is a wool overcoat that’s dark gray and reaches his knees. Currently, the coat is unbuttoned, allowing a glimpse of the expensive attire underneath and adding a touch of casual sophistication.

None of the elegance he wears compares to the beauty of his face.

He stares straight ahead, giving me a view of his square, clean-shaven jaw and dark hair, styled with a purposeful disarray, a wayward black strand grazing his forehead. The man’s lips are generous, forming a mouth that could easily slope into a smile or thin with disapproval. I’ve never seen the former, but I’ve had plenty of experience with the latter.

Harper grins at me, her gaze never leaving the newcomer. “I’m calling dibs.”

“You can have him,” I mutter.

But she’s already gone, sashaying over to the register. “Good morning, sir. Welcome to the Sugar Cube. What can I get for you?”

“Black coffee. Large.”

His voice fills the room like his presence. Commanding yet smooth, like silk on skin. I force myself to stare out the window despite my body urging me to look at him.

“And the name for your order?”

The man lifts a dark brow as if to tell Harper she’s ridiculous for asking since he’s the only one in line. Little does he know she has the fortitude of a Spartan. In terms of boldness, if anyone could give Gerard Butler a run for his money, it’d be her. I can easily imagine her shouting “this is Sugar Cube” in a customer’s face.

My friend merely waits, her stare no less daunting, her smile losing none of its impishness.

“Bennett,” he says, the syllables clipped.

My co-worker grins at him, the green of her eyes close to emeralds, alight with her small victory. “I’ve got you, Mr. Bennett.” She whips out her Sharpie with the flourish of a showman and scribbles on the cup as though gifting him with her autograph. “Anything else?”

He shakes his head and a lock of his hair sways against his forehead. From the corner of my eye, I catch Harper’s fingers straightening. She wants nothing more than to brush back the errant strand, to remove his devil-may-care appearance.

And his clothes.

If they were alone and Bennett was up for it, I’m sure Harper would let him bend her over the countertop.

I’d sanitize the hell out of it.

I still might. I swear her self-proclaimed “horny vibes” or pheromoans—yes, that’s how she told me to spell it—are like the common cold: contagious and inconvenient. Just thinking about that has me eyeing my sanitizer from across the room.

“Your total is $3.50,” Harper says. She waits for him to swipe his card before rushing off to get his coffee.

With the transaction nearly complete, I rise. Bennett’s gaze flickers to mine. It’s brief, hardly a full second, yet I freeze.

The coldness radiating from his blue eyes has always affected me this way, from my first encounter with him in the courtroom several months ago and every time thereafter.

I suppress a shiver and lift my chin, focusing my attention on the pastry display. Once I’m behind the counter, I keep my eyes downcast as though my apron is the key to my survival or a shield against Bennett’s piercing gaze.

Just as he takes a seat across the room, the door opens, and a large group of customers walk in. A blessed distraction, cutting through the tension in the air. Those who arrive for the brunch rush don’t trickle in, which would give us enough time to serve them without inciting their impatience. Nope, they herd themselves inside like cattle and immediately overwhelm the space with a long line.

“Welcome to the Sugar Cube,” I say. “What can I get for you?”

After taking several orders, each person more growly than the last, I don’t bother with the greeting. Even my “hellos” are less heartfelt and cheerful.

I stare up at the current customer to ask him for his order and the words melt on my tongue. The man resembles a grizzly bear with his unkempt hair and the wild look in his eyes. His clothes, a plaid shirt and ripped jeans, are riddled with stains. That alone has me leaning back, as if the filth on him will leap across the counter and taint me. Well, more than I am already.

I eye the sanitizer with longing.

If I thought I could squirt some on him without it being offensive, I would. Although I’m not sure it would make a difference. I know it doesn’t help me feel any cleaner, no matter how many times I sanitize my hands.

“I want an Italian BLT panini and a black coffee,” he says. “This better not take all damn day either.”

His harsh tone combined with my already frazzled nerves has me shaking. The feeling of exhaustion is normal, but the apprehension is new. Harper hands me his drink, and I rush to put a sleeve on the hot beverage to keep from burning myself.

Only I miss the bottom of the cup. My sharp movement causes the coffee to spill all over my fingers. I jerk back with a yelp when the coffee sizzles against my skin, the burning liquid spreading all over the counter—and partially on the customer.

Harper peers over at me from the espresso machine as I wipe my hand on my apron. The room doesn’t go silent, but the conversations all around me becomes muffled, drowned out by the thrumming of my pulse in my ears.

The man slams his hand against the register and leans forward. I blink up at him. With every sweep of my lashes, the muscles in my body tighten until I’m a coil of tension, ready to spring.

Although I never held a job before my father’s untimely death, I’d never been ignorant of how life worked outside of the estate grounds. People experience emotions, both high and low, and I’ve encountered them. However, this type of behavior isn’t something I’m accustomed to.

“What the fuck is wrong with you?” he shouts in my face.

“I’m sorry,” I say, the minor burns on my fingers already forgotten. “It was an accident.”

“I don’t give a shit.”

Harper frowns and lifts her foot to march over while my bottom lip trembles. Anger churns within my gut at this man’s disrespect, but what frustrates me the most is my lack of power. I won’t say anything because I can’t afford to lose my only source of income. But it’s not just that. If this altercation shifts from verbal to physical, I will be in danger. Actually, I might already be in trouble.

“Apologize.” The deep voice next to me is calm, yet dark and foreboding, like that of an executioner. “Now.”

Everything goes quiet except for the sounds bleeding in from the street outside. It’s like a vacuum has sucked the air from the room. My breath stills in my lungs, and my body trembles with the effort to breathe. I shift my attention from the threat in front of me to the one beside me.

Mr. Bennett.

He stands so close that the heat from his body sinks into my clothing, warming my skin. My blush is instant. Even so, I can’t look away.

He doesn’t glance at me. Not once. “If I have to repeat myself, things will become… unpleasant.”

The customer sputters, disbelief shining through his narrowed eyes.

Bennett shrugs off his coat and holds it out to me. Dazed, with my lips slightly parted, I stare up at him. His face gives nothing away. But his eyes… they’re glacial, twin shards of ice polished to a lethal gleam.

I automatically grip the material of his coat, and the scent of him wafts under my nose. It’s a combination of a spice and mint, refreshing and clean. It’s intoxicating.

“What the hell?” The angry customer shifts his stance and leans further across the counter. “Who are you?”

Bennett drops his gaze to his cufflink. His long fingers work the metal through the tiny hole, the design a silver serpent with a ruby for an eye. His actions are precise but unhurried. He hands me the cufflink, and then the other before slowly rolling up one sleeve of his dress shirt.

I stand there, with his coat draped over my arm and his jewelry in my palm, watching him expose the skin of his forearms. It’s akin to him stripping. Even Harper stands rooted to the spot, her gaze transfixed on Bennett’s hypnotizing movements.

With one sleeve in place, he begins to work on the other. My heart stutters in my chest, but I can’t look away. Somewhere, in the deep recesses of my brain, is the thought that I loathe this man. But it’s been overridden by the woman in me.

The female that enjoys the sight of a beautiful and powerful male.

I suppose we’re all animals at our core, always warring with our basic instincts. Similar to the way I’ve been fighting my attraction to the lawyer since I first laid eyes on him.

“What are you going to do?” The customer chuckles, the sound full of disbelief with hints of unease. “Hit me?”

“If it’s necessary,” Bennett says.

“She’s just some chick.”

“You’re wrong.”

Bennett fists his hands by his sides, his sleeves gathered at his elbows, and tilts his head. The lights shining overhead cover him in brightness, but the dark promise of his voice erases any indication that he’s angelic.

Unless one compares him to Lucifer…

I clutch Bennett’s coat tighter, pressing it against my chest as a wave of energy hits me. It rolls off of him and onto me like a breeze in winter, chilling me to the bone.

“Whatever, man,” the customer says.

Bennett nods once. Whatever conclusion he’s come to has me taking a step back. His eyes flash with intent right before his hand shoots out, snatching the man by the throat.

“Holy shit,” Harper whispers from behind me.

I’d echo that sentiment if I weren’t at a loss for words.

“What the hell—”

Bennett tightens his hold, cutting off the  customer’s airway, his fingers digging into the man’s skin. He yanks the man over the counter, keeping him partially suspended in the air while the guy claws at his hand.

“If the next words out of your mouth aren’t an apology, then you’ll lose your tongue,” Bennett says, his voice even despite the air of violence surrounding him. “Am I clear?”

I swallow deep, ready to obey even though he’s not speaking to me. This is what frightens me about the lawyer: my immediate instinct to do whatever he says. I ignore the urge, still too stupefied to do anything except watch this scene play out.

The customer thrashes about in Bennett’s hold, and someone behind them mutters something about calling the police. The man’s face turns a sickly shade, and his attempts to get free die down before Bennett loosens his grip. But only enough for the man to suck in a quick breath, as if through a straw.

He looks at me, eyes bulging and skin splotchy. I suppress a grimace when he parts his dry, cracked lips to speak. “I’m sorry.”

It’s hoarse, barely audible, but an apology nonetheless.

I nod, unsure if I’m acknowledging him or if I’m silently asking for Bennett to release him. Only he doesn’t let the man go. Instead, Bennett pulls him closer.

“If I ever see you here again, it’ll be for the last time.”

Even though Bennett’s voice is a low rumble, the threat rings loud and clear. Several people gasp and look at the door, contemplating their stay. The captive man nods vigorously, as much as possible with Bennett’s large hand still gripping his throat. Only when the customer’s eyes are bulging from his skull does Bennett finally release him.

The man stumbles back and makes his way past the group of people staring at him. Their gazes shift to me next, but my focus is on Bennett. He reaches for his coat and cufflinks without a word. Once he’s taken possession of his items, he walks from behind the counter and out the door, leaving everyone to stare after him.

Including me.

I believe that people have different facets to their personality. But I never would’ve guessed that Mr. Bennett, the prosecuting attorney who tried to imprison my father, would be the same man who also possessed a degree of chivalry.

Or that he’d execute it on my behalf.