“Help me,” she gasps, her voice a shredded whisper. “He’s coming.”
Craigston jumps to his feet, his book forgotten on the floor, his eyes wide with shock at the sudden appearance of this half-frozen, bloodied girl in a ruined ball gown. He takes a step toward her, his hands outstretched in a gesture of assistance.
And then she collapses. Her body gives out completely, and she crumples to the floor in a boneless heap, her dark hair fanning out around her head like a splash of ink on the wooden floorboards.
That’s my cue.
I take a deep, steadying breath, reining in the possessive, violent energy coursing through me. I need to appear calm. In control. I walk to the front door and open it slowly.
The warmth of the fire washes over my chilled skin. Craigston looks up, his jaw going slack as he sees me. The surprise in his eyes morphs instantly into recognition, then to the unquestioning deference I expect from all my men. He understands immediately.
He glances from me to the unconscious girl on his floor, and his gaze becomes carefully neutral. He moves as if to help her, but I hold up a hand, a silent, absolute command. She is mine to handle.
I kneel beside her, the rough fabric of my suit trousers soaking up the melted snow from her gown. Up close, she is even more stunning. Her face, flushed from the cold and exertion, is a masterpiece of delicate lines and pale, translucent skin. Her lips are parted slightly, a faint puff of breath escaping them. My fingers itch to touch her, to trace the line of her jaw, to feel the pulse fluttering in her throat.
I gently gather her into my arms. The cold dampness of her skin, the dead weight of her unconscious form—it’s the most satisfying feeling I’ve ever known. She is real. She is here. She is mine.
“Blanket,” I manage to say, my voice raw from the chase and the cold.
Craigston moves without a word, pulling a thick quilt from the back of his armchair. I wrap it around her trembling body, cocooning her, pulling her flush against my chest. Her scent fills my senses, a dizzying mix of pine, snow, and her own unique fragrance. It is the scent of victory.
“Start your truck. Heat on full,” I command, my voice regaining its familiar edge of authority.
He doesn’t hesitate, disappearing out the door into the night. A moment later, the low rumble of his truck's engine purrs to life.
I look down at the exquisite face nestled in the crook of my neck. I came here tonight to collect a financial debt from a pathetic, aging socialite. I am leaving with a queen. My queen. The world has shifted on its axis, and I am the new center of her universe. She just doesn't know it yet.
Four
Kaden
ThejourneyfromCraigston’scabin to my home is a blur of snow-swept trees and the steady rumble of the truck’s engine. The heater blasts on full, filling the cab with adry, stifling heat, but the only warmth I feel comes from the woman in my arms.
Wynter.
Her name is a constant, rhythmic pulse in my mind. I hold her tight against my chest, her head lolling onto my shoulder, her breaths soft and even against my neck. For a man who has built an empire on calculated detachment, this raw, cellular need to simply hold her is a seismic shock. It’s a weakness. A vulnerability I can’t afford. And yet, I would kill any man who tried to take her from me.
Alrik is waiting at the entrance to my private drive, his car blocking the path. He steps out as I pull up, his face grim in the glare of the headlights. I get out, leaving Wynter bundled in the passenger seat for a moment, the cold air a welcome slap of reality.
“The compound is on high alert,” he says, his voice low. “Perimeter patrols doubled. What are your orders?”
“No one gets in or out without my direct authorization. No one,” I command. My gaze drifts back to the truck, to the precious cargo within. “She’s not to be disturbed. No maids, no staff. Only Doc. Is he here?”
“He’s waiting in your library. He was… concerned by the urgency of your call.”
“Good.”
Alrik’s eyes follow my gaze to the truck. “Sir… is this about the Blanc debt?”
I turn to him, letting the full weight of my authority settle on him. “This is no longer about a debt. This is about her. Everything is about her now. Do you understand?”
The question is a threat. He understands it as such. “Perfectly, sir.”
“Go,” I dismiss him. He gets back in his car and pulls away, disappearing into the darkness, leaving me alone with my obsession.
I carry her from the truck to the house. The front door opens onto a grand, two-story foyer of dark wood and cold stone, a space designed to intimidate. But as I carry her across the threshold, it feels different. It feels like a king bringing his queen home to their castle for the first time. My home, a place that has only ever been a fortress and a symbol of my power, suddenly feels like something more. It feels like hers.
I take her straight up the main staircase, bypassing the guest wings. Her place is not as a guest. Her place is with me. In my room. In my bed.
