Page 103 of Vicious Betrayal

Age gap

One-night stand

Obsessive, possessive protector

Touch her and die

Forbidden attraction

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Now, enjoy the sneak peek from Chapter One…

Olivia

And then, as I glance down the bar, I see a man that makes my breath suddenly come short.

It's been a long, long time since anyone has done that. Since I've seen a man who can make my heart skip in my chest and my breath catch. But this guy…

He's sitting at the end of the other side of the bar, a few empty seats next to him, as if no one wants to get too close. Considering the bar is ninety percent men tonight, I'm not surprised—there's a dangerous, standoffish air about him that suggests no one should get too close.

But God, he's handsome. He has dark reddish-brown hair, buzzed on the sides and a bit longer on top, and darker stubble on a strong, sharp jaw. His shoulders are broad and his arms thick beneath his dark gray henley. Tattoos crawl up his neck and down his forearms where his sleeves are pushed up, over the backs of his hands and down his fingers.

And… he looks oddly familiar.

My heart does another stutter in my chest when I realize who he reminds me of… an older version, maybe, of someone I once knew. It can't be him. But God, he looks like⁠—

I force myself to look away, staring down at my whiskey. My pulse is hammering now, loud enough that I can hear it in my ears, and I gulp down the rest of the whiskey, welcoming the burn.

Rian Callahan.

I haven't thought about him in years. There would have been no point in it. I've never been more embarrassed by a man in all my life. I wanted to put him behind me when I left for college at eighteen, and I was glad not to see him when I came back.

Back when I was sixteen and stupid, I was convinced that the dangerous, beautiful enforcer who sometimes came to our house to talk to my dad, who I saw around the mafia houses when I'd occasionally accompany my dad, was the most fascinating man I'd ever seen. He was the subject of night after night of breathless teenage fantasies. I was convinced that a man like him, a man who didn't follow any of the rules of society, wouldn't care that I was only sixteen. In fact, I'd had a crush on him since I was at least fourteen, and I told myself that by waiting those two years, I'd put in enough time. He wouldn't mind. I

I built it up like crazy in my head, how he'd be flattered that I'd wanted him for so long, that he'd be excited by the idea of being my first, aroused by something so taboo. And with all that swirling around my very underdeveloped brain, I'd kissed him.

I actually fucking kissed him. I cornered him in our kitchen during one of his visits, stood on my toes, and pressed my mouth to his like I had any idea what I was doing.

He'd frozen in place. Then he'd very gently, set me back from him.

You're a kid, he'd said. I'm twenty-six. This isn't happening. I can still hear his voice, even twelve years later, ringing clearly in my head. I couldn't even tell if he did want me, and just wasn't willing to cross that line. As far as I could tell, he had no interest. And God, I still feel fucking stupid over it. I was a skinny, nerdy, bookish girl who was far too in her own head. There's no way, I realize now, a man in his late twenties who undoubtedly had women throwing themselves at him every night, would have looked twice at me.

He never came around our house again. When my dad was called to work on the mafia guys, if there was an occasion he had me with him, Rian was never there. Thinking back on it, I'm fairly certain he put deliberate space between us, so nothing like that could happen again. And the humiliation of it all was enough to, if not burn the crush out, at least force me to push it so far back in my head that I didn't linger on it anymore.

And then I went to college, and med school, and I was too busy and overwhelmed with the newness of it all to think about him. I lost my virginity to some fumbling guy whose name I don't remember at a college party my freshman year. I hooked up throughout college when I felt like it or had the time, and I never thought about that guy who I once salivated over like he was a celebrity pinup again.

But this man⁠—

I risk another glance. He's staring into his own drink, his posture hunched and closed-off. He looks like he's trying to take up as little space as possible. Which is impossible, given his size. He's huge—six-three, maybe six-four, and even clothed, it's clear that he's ripped. I can only imagine what those muscles would feel like under my hands…