Hired To Protect Him, Falling For Him

Chapter 7: Let Him Watch

He opened his fist slowly. The glass shards glittered in his palm like crushed diamonds. Deep cuts. Blood welling up from three different places. He had been squeezing his phone so hard when he got Marcus's message that he didn't even feel it shatter in his hand.

I pulled my clutch open, took out my small first-aid kit — I never go to any event without it, not even a gala — and knelt slightly to get a better angle in the moving car. I started picking out the glass with my tweezers, one piece at a time.

He watched me. His eyes were black, not blue anymore. Empty.

"He knows your security detail," I said quietly, focusing on his hand so I wouldn't have to look at his face. "He knew where the gala was. He knew where the service exit is. He knew you'd be in that hallway at 9:17. That's not a lucky guess."

"He grew up in that building," Elias said, his voice like gravel scraping concrete. "My father used to take us there. Of course he knows the exits."

"No," I said, pressing the gauze harder to his palm to stop the bleeding. "He knows you NOW. He knew you hired a female bodyguard. He photographed ME, not you. He sent a picture of you and me together. He did that because he knows you... care. He's studying you, Elias."

His hand flinched hard in mine at the word care.

I tied the bandage tight. Too tight. On purpose. He needed to feel something other than rage.

He hissed through his teeth, but he didn't pull away. God, he liked it when I was rough with him. It was sick. We were both sick.

"Nova."

"Don't."

"Nova, look at me."

This time, I did look.

His face was inches from mine in the dark back seat of the Range Rover. Rain was hitting the windows hard now. London was blurring past us in streaks of gold and red. The driver had the partition up. We were completely alone. The city was moving outside, but in here, time had stopped completely.

"I told you how he works," he whispered, his breath warm on my face. "He takes what I love first. To make me watch. He took Lena.He tried to take me. Now he wants you. Because you are the first thing I've looked at in three years like it matters."

I should have said something professional. I should have said, You are my principal. My job is to keep you alive. This is procedure. Keep distance.

Instead, what came out of my mouth was, "Let him try."

Elias stared at me, and then that dangerous thing from the hallway came back — that something more dangerous than anger. It was hunger. Possession.

He leaned in. Slowly. So slowly. Giving me every second to stop him, to push him away, to remember I was his employee.

I didn't. I couldn't.

His forehead touched mine. Just like in the photo Marcus had taken in the hallway. His bloody, bandaged hand came up to cup the back of my neck, careful but possessive, his thumb stroking my pulse.

"My bodyguard," he whispered again, but this time it wasn't hoarse or angry. It was a vow. A prayer.

"Say it again, and I will break your other thumb," I whispered back, but my voice shook so badly he could definitely hear it. My hands were on his chest, but I wasn't pushing.

He smiled. That slow, dangerous Thorne smile that made billionaires and gangsters nervous.

"My bodyguard who is going to let me watch her save my ass?"

I pushed him back against the seat, hard. "Your bodyguard who is going to lock you in your penthouse and go hunting alone tonight. Marcus wants me. He sent MY picture, not yours. That means I am the bait. Good. I work better as bait."

His smile vanished instantly. "Absolutely not. No."

"Marcus wants me. That's an advantage. We can use it."

"No. You are not bait. You are not —"

"I am what, Mr. Thorne?" I leaned closer now, my lips almost brushing his, my red dress riding up. I was using the one weapon I knew worked on him. "Your girlfriend? Your plus one in a red dress? Your property?"

His eyes dropped to my mouth. His grip on my neck tightened. "You are mine to protect."

I laughed. No humor at all.

"I was hired to protect YOU. And I will. Even from your dead brother. Especially from your dead brother."

The SUV stopped suddenly. We were at his building. The private underground garage at One Hyde Park. No other cars. Just concrete and cameras.

I opened the door first, my training kicking back in. I scanned — left, right, pillars, ceiling — clear — then pulled him out by his good hand.

We walked fast toward the private elevator. His hand in mine.

As we walked, MY phone buzzed again in my clutch. Loud in the empty garage.

We both froze mid-step.

I pulled it out. Unknown number again. No caller ID. One video this time. It was auto-playing.

I pressed play, holding it so we both could see.

It was dark, shaky, filmed on a phone. But I recognized it instantly. The gala hallway. From twenty minutes earlier. Me in the red dress, shoving Elias against the wall. Elias smiling down at me.

Then a man's voice came on. Distorted with a voice changer, but the accent was pure British. Like Elias, but younger. Colder. With no soul.

"You always liked the dangerous ones, Older brother. But this one? She will look so pretty burning.

The video ended.

Elias went completely still beside me. I felt his whole body go rigid. My stomach dropped to the floor. I have seen that look before on clients right before they did something stupid and dangerous and got themselves killed.

Then he did what he did in the alley — he laughed. Quiet. Deadly. The kind of laugh that meant someone was about to bleed out.

And he pulled me into the elevator, pressed the button for the penthouse, then pressed me against the mirrored wall, his body caging mine completely. The cold glass against my bare back, his heat in front of me. Trapped.

"If he wants you," he said, his voice low against my ear, his hands on either side of my head, trapping me, his bandaged hand leaving a faint blood smear on the mirror, "he will have to go through me. And I buried him once, Nova. With my own hands. I will enjoy doing it again. For you."

The elevator doors closed with a soft ding, sealing us in. Locking us together.

The numbers climbed. 10, 20, 30, 45.

My heart was hammering so loud I was sure he could hear it. His bandaged hand slid from the wall to my waist, holding me steady, claiming me.

And upstairs, on his penthouse floor, when the doors finally opened, the light was already on.

Someone was already inside, waiting for us.