The Billionaire's Lost Bloodline

Boundaries

Chapter 4

The lock clicked behind Melissa, the sharp, metallic snap echoing like a guillotine through the cavernous, shadow-drenched silence of the master suite.

Abigail looked up immediately, her heart violently hammering against her ribs. He walked toward her slowly, without saying a single word. His movements were fluid, predatory, and entirely unbothered by the late hour. As he closed the distance, his hands rose to the silver links at his cuffs, unfastening them with a practiced, casual ease, as if entering her bedroom at midnight meant absolutely nothing.

Abigail felt a cold shiver chase down her spine, a primal instinct screaming at her to flee. Her fingers tightened frantically around the lapels of her silk robe, pulling the thin fabric flush against her throat. The silk felt like armor made of paper—entirely useless against a man of his stature. She seemed completely terrified, her chest rising and falling in shallow, uneven strokes as the sheer gravity of his presence began to warp the space around them.

"What are you doing here?" Her voice cracked slightly, though she tried desperately to anchor it. His dark eyes lifted briefly, catching the dying amber light of the hearth. They were entirely unreadable.

"In my wife's room?" He continued walking, his leather shoes silent against the Persian rug, cutting down the distance between them until he was almost touching her. "Anything I want."

Abigail stood from the velvet chair at once. She refused to look up at him from a position of submission, even if her knees felt like liquid. Her legs were incredibly weak, trembling from the sheer, exhausting psychological weight of the wedding day, but pride worked better than strength. Pride was the only currency she had left after her family had traded her away to settle a debt.

She swallowed past the lump of dry anxiety in her throat, forcing her shoulders back. "I'm tired. I’ve had a long day already, and I’d appreciate it if you left."

Nothing. He didn't even blink. Instead, Christopher stopped directly in front of her. Close enough that the heat radiating from his massive frame began to suffocate her. She could smell the intoxicating, dangerous scent of him—expensive sandalwood, winter rain, and the faint, bitter edge of Scotch.

His eyes dropped to her mouth, lingering on the tremor of her lower lip before rising back to hers. His fingers moved to the buttons near his collar. Slowly, with an agonising lack of haste, he unbuttoned more of his shirt, exposing the structured, brutal perfection of his body. The fabric parted to reveal the sharp, tanned lines of his collarbone and the hard, sculpted muscle of his chest, marred by a faint scar near his ribs. It was an intensely intimate, raw display of power, done with a chilling lack of self-consciousness.

Abigail stepped back once. The raw, masculine heat pouring off him was too much. Then she stepped back again. The cold, unforgiving plaster of the wall stopped her. She had run out of room. She was trapped, and the realization hit her stomach like a lead weight.

Christopher didn't hesitate. He closed the remaining gap instantly, placing his hand over her against the wall, his massive body looming over her like a shadow deity. The sheer scale of him blocked out the rest of the room, isolating her in his private universe. Before she could flinch away, his other hand rose, his long, scarred fingers lifting to touch her face.

His grip on her jaw was a vice wrapped in velvet, demanding her compliance without needing to bruise. His thumb, slightly calloused, brushed beneath her left eye, tracing the sensitive skin where the tracks of her dried tears remained like salt lines on porcelain.

"Why are you not scared of me?" he murmured, his voice dropping into a gravelly, low purr that vibrated straight through her skull.

Abigail’s jaw tightened immediately under his touch, her teeth grinding together as she forced herself to stare back into his abyssal eyes. She was scared—petrified—but she would rather die than give him the satisfaction of seeing her beg.

Christopher noticed the defiance. A dark, dangerous spark ignited in his eyes, his thumb pressing a fraction harder into her jaw.

"Your conditions are wasting my time," he whispered, his face lowering until his lips were mere inches from hers. "This isn't a marriage of love, Abigail. We both know why you're here. Your father sold you to clear up his debts, and I bought you to solidify my legacy. We should get it over with soon." He said this while suddenly pulling her closer to himself, his hand sliding down from the wall to grip the small of her back, flushing her hips flush against his hard, unyielding thighs.

Abigail gasped, the sudden impact knocking the air from her lungs. She was entirely pinned against his structured body, her soft curves crushed against the unyielding stone of his chest. Christopher froze for a fraction of a second, staring down into her unreal eyes—eyes that looked too bright, too innocent, too beautiful for the dark world he intended to drag her into.

A heavy, volatile tension snapped between them, thick and suffocating. Slowly, deliberately, he ran his large, warm hands through her body, tracing the curve of her waist, the flare of her hips, mapping out the territory he now legally owned. The sheer, raw intimacy of his palms against the silk robe sent a jolt of terrifying electricity straight down her spine.

He leaned in further, burying his face in the crook of her neck. He breathed on her neck, his hot, liquor-scented breath scalding her sensitive skin. Abigail’s breathing grew incredibly uneven, her chest heaving against his as she fought for oxygen, her mind spinning from the intoxicating, predatory weight of him.

"I would never fall for you," he whispered against her pulse point, his voice a cruel, velvet promise that sent a shiver straight through her core. "You are a means to an end. You better get your business done, give me what I require, and get going. The sooner this arrangement succeeds, the sooner you get your freedom back." The words were flat, stripped of any pretense, and cold enough to freeze her blood. It was exactly the wrong thing to say.

Anger, hot and volatile, surged through Abigail’s veins, obliterating her paralyzing fear. How dare he treat her like a breeding animal? How dare he assume she wanted anything to do with his twisted, dark world?

With a surge of desperate, raw adrenaline, Abigail pushed him away. She shoved his massive chest with every ounce of strength she possessed. It wasn't enough to hurt him, but the sheer suddenness of her violence caught him off guard, forcing him back half a step.

Sensing a fleeting window of escape, she tried to run, her bare feet skidding on the polished floorboards as she bolted toward the heavy oak door.

She didn't even make it three steps. Christopher moved like a viper. Before she could even reach for the brass handle, his arm lashed out. He grabbed her by the waist from behind, his grip like an iron band. With a brutal, effortless exertion of force, he lifted her off her feet and pushed her to the bed. The air rushed out of her as she hit the mattress, falling backward into the sea of silk sheets.

Before she could even scramble away, Christopher was over her. He didn't pin her down, but his large body hovered inches above hers, a dark silhouette casting a shadow that swallowed her whole. Shock arrived first, paralyzing her throat. Then fear. Real, suffocating, primal fear.

Shaking like a leaf, her hands tightened instantly against the sheets, digging her nails into the fabric as she looked up into his volatile eyes. The raw, predatory hunger flashing across his features was terrifying.

"The contract," she choked out, her voice trembling so violently the words were barely audible. "The deal... you signed it."

Christopher stared down at her, his breathing heavy, his dark hair falling forward over his brow. He didn't speak. He just watched her shiver beneath him, his gaze tracking the frantic rise and fall of her chest, lingering on the exposed skin of her throat.

"You promised," she whispered, tears of anger and terror finally blurring her vision. "You said you wouldn't force me."

The room remained utterly, suffocatingly still. The crackle of the fireplace was the only sound navigating the agonizing tension.

Christopher looked at her for a long, torturous moment. Then, with an indifferent, almost casual motion, he reached out and stroked her hair. His fingers tangled in the dark strands near her temple, twisting them slightly, pulling just enough to force her to look up into his cold, calculating eyes.

"I don't force women," he reminded her, his voice dangerously calm, stripped of all the heavy heat from moments before. It was the tone of a judge delivering a final verdict.

He let go of her hair, his hand dropping to his side. "And you better behave, Abigail. Or you'll meet your end before this contract even matters. Do not mistake my patience for weakness."

The warning landed simply, heavy with the promise of absolute ruin. With a low, controlled exhale, he got up from her body, removing the suffocating weight of his presence in an instant. The sudden absence of his heat left her feeling strangely cold, shivering on the bed as she watched him.

Christopher stood by the edge of the bed, entirely unbothered by the violence of the last few minutes. With methodical, practiced precision, he straightened his shirt, smoothing down the expensive fabric and rebuttoning his collar until he looked like the impeccable, untouchable billionaire the world knew him to be. Within the span of a few seconds, he had locked the beast back into its cage. He reached down to retrieve his luxury watch from the nightstand, fastening it around his wrist before looking back down at her frozen form.

"You will be going to work with me tomorrow morning," he told her, his voice flat, professional, and entirely devoid of warmth. "Be ready by six. And you better not be late. I don't tolerate incompetence, not even from my wife."

Abigail remained paralyzed on the mattress, her heart still hammering against her ribs like a trapped bird. Her brows pulled together, a knot of confusion and dread tightening in her chest. "Work? Why?"

Christopher didn't answer. He didn't owe her explanations, and he certainly wasn't going to start giving them now. He turned on his heel and walked toward the heavy oak door, his long, effortless strides conveying the absolute authority he held over her entire existence. He reached the threshold and paused, his hand resting firmly against the brass door handle.

He didn't turn around to look at her, but his head tilted slightly, just enough for her to see the sharp, cruel angle of his jaw in the dim light of the hallway.

"You're going to meet someone," he said quietly, his voice carrying a chilling, ominous weight that made her blood run cold.

"You better behave." The door opened, and then it clicked shut, the lock turning automatically from the outside. Abigail was left entirely alone in the suffocating darkness, her hands still shaking against the sheets, realizing with a sinking heart that the nightmare had only just begun.