I didn't fight him this time when we lifted me up in his arms bridal style. My body was too wrung out, my feet raw and stinging, my lungs burned. He carried me like I weighed nothing, blood soaking through his bandage, warm against my side. I wanted to tell him to put me down, that he was hurt worse than I was, but the words never came. Something in his grip, like his wasn't even injured , unyielding and steady stilled me.
The mansion doors opened, men in black suits staring with wide eyes as their boss, Alexander Cross, strode past them with me in his arms. He didn't look at them. Didn't acknowledge their shock. His focus was a blade, honed and fixed entirely on me. Which I found totally weird.
He brought me upstairs, into a room too large and too beautiful to feel real. Crystal light shimmered from the ceiling, the bedspread was silk, the wardrobe doors polished mahogany. He set me gently on the edge of the bed, and for the first time since the alley, I felt small again.
"You're bleeding more than I am," I said softly.
His mouth curled in something that wasn't quite a smile. "Worry about yourself for once."
He crouched, taking my foot into his hand. The sight made me stiffen, but he ignored my flinch. With a cloth and antiseptic, he began to clean the cuts, slow and careful, though his face was unreadable. I hissed when the sting hit, and his eyes flicked up briefly.
"Stupid," he muttered. "Jumping out of windows barefoot. You could have broken your little legs."
"Better than staying to be shot at again."
His jaw ticked, but he said nothing more. He wrapped my foot, then the other, his touch firm but precise, like he'd done this a hundred times before. When he was finished, he stood, towering over me again.
"Take a bath," he said. "Change into something fresh. There are clothes in the wardrobe. All your size."
My head snapped up. "My size? How would you—"
He didn't answer. He simply turned, leaving me with the quiet click of the door.
I sat frozen, staring at the wardrobe. When I finally rose and opened it, my stomach twisted. Dresses, shirts, even pajamas, all looked perfectly fitted for me, or close enough that it was no coincidence.
He'd planned for this. For me.
The thought chilled me even as I forced myself to shower, to scrub off the grime and fear clinging to me. When I dressed and stepped out, a man in a black suit was waiting. He didn't speak, only inclined his head and led me down polished corridors until we reached a heavy oak door.
It looked like his study.
The man opened it for me, and I stepped inside.
He was at his desk, papers spread before him, glasses perched low on his nose. The sight of him hit me in a way I didn't want to admit, sharp suit, sleeves rolled to his forearms, hair swept back, jaw shadowed with stubble. He looked carved out of a hot magazine. Infuriatingly beautiful.
When his eyes lifted, they dragged slowly over me, from the hem of the dress I'd chosen up to my face. My skin prickled, heat rising to my cheeks.
"Sit," he said.
I crossed the room, sat stiffly across from him. My heart beat hard against my ribs.
He slid a folder toward me. I took it from him with shaky hands, I opened it, my eyes skimming briefly over the documents in it, and I soon realized it was a contract binding me to him legally for two years with a little do's and fonts in it.
"Two years," he said smoothly. "You marry me. You fulfill your role as my wife in public, and I'll wipe your family's debt clean. You'll live in comfort, in safety, in power. Refuse, and…" He tapped the paper. "Well You know the rest."
I stared at the words, bile climbing my throat. "No. I told you already…..I'll find another way. I'll work, I'll pay every cent back if I have t..."
He leaned back, lips curving as if he'd been waiting for this. "Work?" His hand opened another folder. He slid it across the desk.
And my blood turned to ice.
Ian's name was on the top of the file. His photograph paper-clipped to the corner. Pages beneath thick with details—school records, financial statements, addresses. Every part of his life laid bare.
I froze, my breath stuck in my chest.
"What… is this? What the fuck do you mean by this." My voice cracked, tinted with so much anger I was tempted to break something, breaking his infuriating face would make me feel so much better.
Alexander's eyes gleamed, cold and cruel. "Leverage. Do you really think I'd let anyone close to you slip through my fingers?"