The tortured cries from Peyton followed me down the hall, but my feet couldn’t carry me to the back door fast enough. Her pain was hauntingly agonizing and made me pick up my step. My jog became a sprint to the door as I sought relief. The fact that Peyton was bawling her eyes out over my worthless hide just made things worse. I didn’t ask to be born. I didn’t want to care for the billionaire’s daughter. I didn’t ask for that fucked-up life. All that shit combined. My rage, simmering beneath the surface, threatened to boil over.
I ran like a man possessed—as if speed could excise my demons. I pushed open the door to the security quarters. Out of breath but not out of fury. My eyes darted around the area, looking for the next victim due for a full-scale beat down.
My knuckles itched to do some damage. One ill-timed comment… One misdirected snicker… The fuse was lit. Detonation was imminent. My brain was primed for savagery, and I was more than willing to live up to my moniker.
Honestly, I wasn’t mad at anyone but my own damned self. I was a fucking asshole, rejecting Peyton like that. The woman loved me, and honestly, I loved her too, but I couldn’t admit it to anyone. Peyton was as forbidden to me as freedom to a man on death row. It was clearly stated on the first page of the policy book I read on my orientation day.
Rule Number One: Keep your damned hands off Aldrich Daniels’ property—this includes his daughter.
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