Trapped in the boss's embrace (by Katrina A) novel Chapter 132

Chapter 132 Food Is Ordered

"Get your hands off her!"

Desmond's growl cut through the air like a blade.

Up close, the sight of Damian's arm draped over Beatrice's shoulders—casual, possessive—ignited something primal in him. He lunged, swiping at Damian's wrist.

Damian flicked him off with a derisive scoff. "Mr. Belmont, keep your paws to yourself. Try acting your pay grade."

Desmond stilled.

Who the hell wants to touch you?

Beatrice shot him a look—half "shut up," half "you're embarrassing me"—and bolted out the door.

Outside, Killian leaned against a white van, waiting.

They'd swapped rides three times today—once for the suburbs, twice to scoop the crew.

Beatrice dove into the van like it was a getaway car.

Desmond, shameless as ever, tried to climb in after her—like he hadn't just strong-armed her into signing the Settlement Agreement.

Yup, he was back on his bullshit!

Damian blocked him. "Sorry, no room for you."

Desmond's glare could've curdled blood. "You're just waiting to swoop in, aren't you?"

"My game, my rules." Damian's grin was all teeth. "Why not play hero for Jane? Quentin's racing here now—wouldn't want to disappoint your beloved in-laws."

"Oof, yeah!" Violet seized her moment, dunking with glee. "Go be the Fairfax golden boy they adore."

She was already over today—busting ass all day just for it to blow up at the end? Total mood-killer.

She roasted him and hopped in the van, with no hesitation.

Desmond's expression darkened to storm clouds.

Damian gave his shoulder a mock-encouraging pat. "Be a good husband—don't let Jane and Quentin down."

He climbed in.

Ethan brought up the rear.

The door slammed, and Killian peeled out, whipping the van around like it was Mario Kart—half-convinced Desmond might climb the hood in a rage.

"Killian, ease up," Damian called from the back.

"Yes, Mr. Crowley," Killian chirped, then floored it—Mario Kart turned Need for Speed.

Violet, still fumbling with her seatbelt, lurched forward, face-planting into the seatback. "Killian! Can you chill for one second?"

He mumbled an apology mid-swerve. "I'm just scared Mr. Belmont's gonna claw his way up the tailpipe—better safe than sorry."

The crew groaned in unison.

What, is Desmond the freaking grudge ghost crawling out the back?

At the precinct entrance, Desmond glowered as the van sped off, yanking out his phone. "Bring the car around."

He didn't need to hitch a ride or scale bumpers—he had his wheels.

*****

They settled on crashing at the hotel and ordering in.

Everyone was too grimy—showers were non-negotiable.

In the elevator, Violet nudged Theodore. "Hey, Theo, hit Ethan's room to clean up. Beatrice and I need the bathroom—girl math says it's not enough."

Theodore nodded, all "oh, cool."

Ethan grinned, wide-open invite.

No one batted an eye—except Damian, whose face dropped like a storm cloud. He zeroed in on Beatrice. "This kid's bunking with you two?"

Beatrice clammed up.

Violet winced, awkward.

Dead air.

Cringe central.

"Uh—" Violet scrambled. "Theodore's my little brother, relax. He's got the spare room solo."

Damian's vibe went subzero—frost piling up in layers.

The elevator turned into an icebox.

"Killian, get this kid his own room."

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