To Master and Defend (The Dungeon Fantasy Club Book 2) Read Free

way, addressing her for the first time. She shook her head. She just wanted to go home and forget about the whole night. Maybe drown her sorrows in a pint of double fudge brownie. The press of the clubgoers, the horde that had formed a wide circle around the firework festivities, was becoming too much for her. She felt like she had entered a tilt a whirl as the eager faces of the mob watched the interaction with unrepentant glee.
    He nodded his understanding before returning his stare toward the perpetrator. "You are banned from this club. Matt, Derek, fill out a violator's report with his information, call the authorities if you have to, and escort this asshole out of the club."
    Ophelia wobbled on her feet in relief as the jerk was dragged away before she focused on the man who'd saved her from unspeakable horrors. She used him as a lifeline as the room continued to spin.
    "Are you all right?" the deep gravelly voice of her rescuer said. He really had a nice mouth, the bottom lip fuller than the top, surrounded by burnished copper stubble.
    Ophelia opened her mouth to respond, to thank him for his timely save. Then her knees buckled and she felt herself falling. The horror of the night's events finally caught up with her.
    "Shit." Her rescuer moved like lightning, which was surprising for a man who was so big. His burly tattoo-covered arms scooped her up, and carried her from the press of curious onlookers.
    "Brendan, watch the floor while I take care of our wounded bird here," his voice rumbled as they passed the bar and she felt his words keenly inside her chest. She liked the way his voice sounded. The honeyed baritone resonated, making her belly quiver.
    She buried her face in his neck, clinging as tears fell. This was the last time she would hit the club scene for some time. A night out wasn't worth this. A man had struck her because she'd said no. Ophelia would have one hell of a time explaining away a bruise she could practically feel forming on her cheek—where his hand had landed—to her sister, Zoey. She'd be furious and get all over-protective like she had since their parents died.
    They passed through a pair of doors on the other side of the bar, down a long, rather forlorn hallway that made Ophelia think of every horror film she'd ever watched, and up a set of stairs. With each passing footstep the sounds from the club became muted and diminished. She felt the sensation as they climbed—it seemed, in her position—the longest flight of stairs in the world.
    He pushed inside a large steel door, closing it behind them. He deposited her on a leather sofa and she protested the loss of his warmth, his strength.
    "I'm just going to grab some ice for your cheek, I'll be right back." He lightly traced her throbbing cheek. His amber eyes simmered like molten gold as he held her gaze. Then he withdrew, walking around the couch and leaving her there.
    Ophelia studied her surroundings, her tears drying on her cheeks as her natural curiosity got the better of her.
    Gone was the garish club lighting and couture, replaced by hints of old world décor. It screamed 'expensive'. The loft apartment appeared to span the entire back-end upper-level of the warehouse. Dark walnut hardwood floors, the real deal, not the fake stuff that had hit the market years ago; midnight leather furniture; and plush ebony rugs dominated the open space. Barely any splashes of color anywhere. It made Ophelia wonder what he had against colors other than black. There were a few oak doors, the same uniform color as the floor, on the wall opposite the front entrance. She assumed they led to bedrooms and bathrooms.
    Then she returned her attention to her knight in shining armor. His strength was lethal. He had taken down her attacker with one solidly landed punch. Tall, his body power-packed with muscles that rippled with each movement, he moved with a lion like grace as he withdrew a bag of something from the stainless steel industrial grade