Mr. Devious: My Contractual Sweetheart

Chapter 2

Luo Qifeng never showed mercy to those who dared ambush him.

Three months prior, a hitman had lurked in his penthouse closet, only to end as a faceless corpse in the East River—bullet hole centered between the eyes. Two weeks ago, a waitress at his favorite bistro had palmed a stiletto, her throat slit before the blade touched skin. Yet now, as this trembling girl in a soiled school uniform stumbled into his VIP suite, his trigger finger hesitated.

Instead of the customary gunshot, his hand shot out to capture her wrist. The bone felt as fragile as a bird’s, encased in skin that burned like a furnace. Strange. He’d expected calluses from a killer’s grip, but her palm was smooth—save for a faint scar near the thumb, shaped like a crescent moon.

Her pulse thundered against his fingertips, a wild drumbeat that matched the odd tremor in his own veins. When she moaned, “So hot…” her breath fanned his neck, scented with cheap liquor and something sweeter—like overripe peaches left in the sun.

“Mmm…” She nuzzled his hand, her cheek flaming against his knuckles. The contrast of her warmth against his perpetually cold skin sent a jolt through him, as if he’d touched a live wire. Enough. He jerked back, but not before noting the flush staining her collarbone, a tide of pink spreading like ink on paper.

“Overheating, are you?” He holstered his pistol with a practiced flick of the wrist, the metal clicking into place. “Let me remedy that.”

His voice echoed in the marble-walled suite, where a crystal chandelier dripped light like frozen rain. She blinked up at him, pupils dilated—whether from alcohol or the drug in her system, he couldn’t tell. But those eyes… hazel flecked with gold, like sunlight through autumn leaves. Dangerous.

“Come.” He hauled her to her feet, her weight surprising light—like carrying a sack of feathers. Her blouse had torn at the collar, revealing a sliver of lace bra. Focus, Qifeng. This was likely a ploy by Qixuan, his half-brother, who’d tried to off him thrice in six months.

As they crossed the threshold, the floor trembled.

BOOM!

The explosion hurled them forward, shattering the door into splinters. Ember collapsed against him, her nails digging into his forearm. Smoke billowed, thick with the stench of sulfur and burning plastic. Through the haze, he saw the VIP suite—once adorned with Renaissance reproductions—now a crater of rubble.

“Micro-explosives.” He muttered, yanking her behind a marble pillar. Bullets pinged off the stone, creating star-shaped cracks. Below, in the main bar, chaos reigned: patrons screamed, bottles shattered, and two men in tactical gear sprayed bullets at the ceiling.

“Stay here.” He pressed Ember into a recessed alcove, her body still radiating heat. Her eyes were wide as saucers, fixed on the gun in his hand.

BANG. BANG.

His shots were precise, each bullet finding a target’s carotid. The bodies fell like marionettes with cut strings, blood pooling on the mosaic floor. But more footsteps thundered up the stairs—Qixuan’s men, no doubt.

“Let’s go.” He grabbed Ember’s wrist again, pulling her toward a service corridor. Her legs buckled, and he hoisted her over his shoulder, cursing the drug that had turned her into dead weight. As they ducked into a storage room, she moaned, “Cold…”

Strange. He’d always been the cold one.

The penthouse elevator whisked them skyward in silence. Ember had passed out, her head lolling against his chest. He studied her face in the mirrored walls: smudged mascara, bitten lips, a faint bruise forming on her jaw. Not beautiful, perhaps, but… arresting. Like a storm-battered bird that refused to fold its wings.

“Sir?” The elevator’s AI chimed. “Shall I alert security?”

“Negative.” He adjusted Ember in his arms, her breath warm against his neck. “Prepare the east wing.”

The doors opened to a foyer lit by a single chandelier. He carried her through halls lined with abstract art—works he’d bought on a whim, now gathering dust. The east wing was seldom used, its bedrooms kept in perpetual readiness for… uninvited guests.

Dropping her onto a four-poster bed, he stepped back. She looked out of place here, among the silk sheets and mahogany furniture—like a wildflower in a glass vase. Her blouse had come undone, revealing the curve of her waist. He tore his gaze away, pouring a glass of bourbon.

The liquid burned going down, but not as much as the memory of her skin on his.

Ember woke to darkness.

Her head pounded, and her body ached as if she’d been hit by a truck. But worse was the heat—an inferno raging under her skin, making her toss and turn on the luxurious bed. Where was she? The last thing she remembered was Shin’s tear-streaked face and a glass of wine that tasted like copper.

“Ah!” She gasped as cool hands touched her forehead.

Luo Qifeng loomed over her, backlit by moonlight. His face was shadowed, but she saw the glint of his eyes—dark, dangerous, like the ocean at night. “Finally awake.”

His voice was low, sending a shiver through her. She tried to sit up, but her limbs felt like lead. “Where… am I?”

“My home.” He held a glass to her lips. “Drink.”

The water was ice-cold, soothing her parched throat. She drank greedily, spilling some down her chin. He wiped it away with his thumb, the touch sending a jolt through her.

“Who are you?” she whispered.

A smile curved his lips, cruel and beautiful. “The man who saved your life.” He leaned closer, his cologne—spiced and smoky—enveloping her. “Now tell me, Ember… who sent you to kill me?”