Vincent

The glass in my hands trembled slightly, and the water almost flew over the edge. I could feel his cold, heavy gaze on my back, making my skin crawl. The air in the kitchen seemed too thick, as if it could be cut with a knife.
I took a sip, trying to control the tremor in my fingers and regain at least a drop of my usual audacity, but my voice still betrayed me:
— You found me anyway, didn't you? It's your job to work off your fee and clean up after me.
He didn't just take a step—he closed the distance instantly, stopping close. He smelled of the night's coolness, cigarette smoke, and the faint smell of gunpowder. His body was tense like a taut cable, and his eyes were filled with rage, which he no longer tried to hide behind his professional mask.
"Work?" his voice dropped to a dangerous, breath-taking whisper. "You think this is a game? You think your father pays me to pull you out of other people's cars just seconds before they take you off in an unknown direction?"
I straightened my back, lifting my chin, even though my heart was pounding somewhere in my throat:
— I didn't ask you to run after me! I just wanted one evening without your shadows behind me! Without your total control!
— Then get used to the idea that next time this shadow might not be around. — Vincent leaned lower, his face a few centimeters from mine. — They didn’t just want to scare you. Two more minutes and you would have learned what happens to rich girls who decide to play at freedom.
He grabbed my wrist sharply, right where the red marks from someone else's fingers had left it. His grip was firm, but this time it wasn't painfully strict, but rather controlling, as if he were checking to see if I was okay.
"You will not take another step without my knowledge," he snapped, looking me straight in the eye. "No more nighttime escapes. Do you understand me?"
I held my breath, feeling something new, wild, and dangerous erupt between the rage and fear.

Reasonable.