The man beside me stiffened at the contact, his body going rigid. I could feel the warmth of him through his clothes, could smell his expensive cologne—something woodsy and clean that even my panicked brain appreciated.
"What do you want?" he snapped at whoever stood in the doorway. His voice had changed, becoming sharper, more authoritative. "This is a private suite."
I held my breath, pressing my face into the pillow to hide it from view. My heart pounded so loudly I was sure everyone could hear it. The man—my reluctant savior—shifted slightly, his arm pressing against mine under the covers.
"Hotel security, sir," came the response. "We're looking for a young man who may have entered your room."
"Does it look like anyone's in here besides me?" The man's voice dripped with irritation. "I value my privacy, which is why I pay for the presidential suite. Now, if you don't mind..."
There was a pause, during which I could practically feel the weight of scrutiny from the doorway. I remained perfectly still, though every muscle in my body screamed with tension.
"We apologize for the disturbance, sir," the voice finally said. "Please let the front desk know if you see anything suspicious."
"Close the door on your way out," the man ordered.
The soft click of the door shutting was the sweetest sound I'd ever heard. Still, I didn't move, afraid this might be a trick. The stranger beside me let out a long, slow breath before shifting to look down at me.
"They're gone," he said, his voice tight. "Now, would you mind explaining why you've broken into my room and climbed into my bed?"
The man's suite was nicer than any place I'd ever stepped foot in. The kind of place that probably cost more for one night than my monthly rent. Floor-to-ceiling windows showcased the city skyline like it was a personal light show put on just for him.
From my hiding spot half-under the covers, I caught glimpses of sleek furniture, what looked like original artwork on the walls, and a bar area stocked with bottles that probably cost more than my tuition.
Great. I'd broken into the room of someone who could definitely afford a team of lawyers to bury me.
“What’s your name?”
I blinked up at the handsome man. “Connor, Connor Matthews.”
“Well, Connor, Connor Matthews, I’m Julian Montgomery. Now, do you want to tell me why you’re in my hotel room?”
Before I could answer, heavy footsteps echoed in the hallway again, followed by urgent voices. I could make out Harris's distinctive tone giving orders to what sounded like hotel security.
"He couldn't have gone far. Check every floor, every stairwell."
"Yes, sir. Should we contact the police?"
"No," Harris replied sharply. "This is a private matter. The young man is... unwell. His family is very concerned."
Concerned about losing their payday, maybe.
My heart hammered in my chest as the voices grew closer. They were checking rooms systematically. It wouldn't be long before they reached this door, and there was nowhere left for me to run.
The bed's occupant shifted, his muscled arm brushing against mine. Even in my drugged state, I registered the firm warmth of him, the subtle scent of his cologne—something expensive and masculine that made my head swim even more than the drugs.
"Don't. Move." His voice was low, barely a whisper, but with an edge of command that brooked no argument.
I froze, trying to breathe as shallowly as possible. The covers were pulled up to just below my chin, and I prayed they concealed enough of me to avoid detection. The man beside me remained tense, his body radiating a coiled energy that suggested he could spring into action at any moment.
The footsteps paused outside the door. My pulse skyrocketed, blood rushing in my ears so loudly I was certain they could hear it through the walls.
A sharp knock rattled the door.
"Mr. Montgomery? Hotel security. We need to check your room again, sir."
Mr. Montgomery—so that was his name—shifted slightly beside me, his arm pressing more firmly against mine as he reached for something on the nightstand. A remote, maybe, or a phone.
"Not now," he called out, his voice changing completely—stronger, more authoritative. "I'm in the middle of something important."
