Chapter 69 Ambrose, Help Me!
Ulysses hadn't even registered what was happening when a brutal force yanked him backward. The next second, a fist connected with his face, sending him sprawling onto the opposite couch.
Ambrose had arrived—and he was out for blood. After that first punch landed, he hauled Ulysses up by the collar and swung again. Ulysses fought back, and within seconds, they were throwing down right there in the suite.
Ulysses could hold his own in a fight, but after a minute of trading blows, Ambrose had him outmatched. Several vicious punches later, Ulysses hit the floor hard.
Scarlett felt like her entire body was on fire, but seeing Ambrose's rage, she panicked that he might actually kill the guy.
"Ambrose!" she called out.
Her voice cut through his fury. He whipped around and took in the sight of her—clothes disheveled, collapsed on the couch, face flushed crimson. Understanding crashed over him instantly.
His expression went thunderous as he shrugged off his jacket and wrapped it around her trembling form. Then he turned back, murder in his eyes.
"Ulysses, you just signed your own death warrant."
He moved to lunge at him again, but Scarlett's desperate plea stopped him.
"Just get me out of here!"
The raw need in her voice drained some of the violence from his body. He scooped her up and headed for the door. At the threshold, Scarlett's vision swam with the sight of what had to be two dozen men—all built like bouncers, radiating testosterone and menace.
"Chase," Ambrose bit out, his tone deadly. "Entertain Mr. Mitchell for me."
"She's been touched, Ambrose," Ulysses called after them with a twisted smirk. "Tasted pretty sweet, too."
"Funny thing—the great Ambrose Martinez falling for a divorcée. Wonder what the tabloids would make of that little scandal?"
Ulysses's dark laughter echoed behind them.
Ambrose didn't waste a second responding. He strode forward with Scarlett in his arms, his men parting like the Red Sea to let him through.
Scarlett never imagined Ambrose would mobilize this kind of operation. This kind of spectacle would definitely attract media attention. And if what Ulysses just said got out... she couldn't let herself think about the fallout.
"Ambrose, what he said—" she gasped from within the circle of his arms.
"Not a single mosquito gets in or out of this place," Ambrose said flatly.
Translation: no one was getting footage of anything.
His words brought a flicker of relief, though in her current state, she barely had the mental bandwidth to care about damage control. She was burning up from the inside out.
"They put something in the water... I feel like I'm on fire," she mumbled, pressing herself closer to him.
Ambrose's stride faltered. He looked down at her flushed face, jaw tightening. "How long can you hold on?"
"I don't know. Everything's just... so hot." She pressed her cheek against his chest, searching for coolness through the fabric of his shirt.
Seeing her deteriorate, he made a split-second decision and carried her to his permanent suite at the Four Seasons.
"We don't have time to get you to a hospital. I've called a doctor. And I'll have the staff bring up ice—lots of it."
Once inside, he carried her straight to the bathroom and started running cold water into the tub. Scarlett, lying there, frantically tugged at her clothes—the heat was unbearable.
Minutes later, hotel staff delivered several buckets of ice. Ambrose grabbed one and headed into the bathroom, only to stop dead. Scarlett had stripped off her clothes.
He squeezed his eyes shut. "Ice is here. I'm going to pour it in."
Through her haze, Scarlett heard him. She forced her eyes open, saw him standing there, and suddenly stood up in the tub. She stumbled toward him and threw her arms around his neck.
Ambrose went rigid. He drew a sharp breath. "Don't," he said roughly. "Get back in the tub. I need to add the ice."
But Scarlett wasn't listening. His body felt blessedly cool against her burning skin. "Please... help me."
"Just hold on," he gritted out. "The ice will help."
She ignored him, continuing to press against him, and the friction was driving him insane—like he'd been drugged too.
Fighting every instinct, he held her with one arm while dumping ice into the tub with the other. Once it was full, he lowered them both into the freezing water, still fully clothed.
The shock of cold seemed to reach through her fog. Scarlett loosened her grip on his neck and sank deeper into the water.
Ambrose exhaled shakily and extracted himself from the tub, retreating to the bedroom to change into dry clothes.
The ice must have been working—Scarlett stopped her desperate pleas. She stayed submerged until the doctor arrived.
When the physician showed up, Ambrose pulled her from the tub again, wrapped her in a plush robe, and carried her to the bed for examination.
The doctor—a man in his forties or fifties—ran his assessment and delivered his diagnosis.
"This is a potent aphrodisiac. There's no antidote except... well, sexual activity."
Scarlett kept her eyes closed, but she heard every word. Ambrose's voice came out controlled. "Is there anything that can ease her symptoms?"
The doctor hesitated for a beat. "I do have a suppressant. It won't cure her, but it might take the edge off temporarily." He rummaged through his medical bag and produced a vial, handing it to Ambrose.
Ambrose immediately administered it, then saw the doctor out.
When he returned, Scarlett was still flushed and trembling on the bed.
"Now we see if you can ride it out," he said quietly.
Scarlett opened her eyes and met his gaze. He hadn't tried to take advantage of her vulnerability. Not once.
She sat up abruptly and reached for him. "Ambrose... please. I need you."
Her voice came out soft and pleading. Ambrose stood frozen. She felt his tension. "You already saw everything anyway."
"I didn't see everything," he said, voice strained.
"Didn't you say I keep you up at night?" she whispered.
"I won't take advantage of you like this."
"I'm asking you to." She clung to him, breathing in his scent, which only made the heat worse. Her face found the curve of his neck.
"It's getting worse again," she whimpered, the sound doing something dangerous to his self-control.
"Scarlett." His voice came out raw. "Are you sure about this?"
She made a small sound of agreement, then tilted her head up to kiss him. The moment her lips touched his, something in Ambrose snapped. He crushed his mouth against hers, taking control of the kiss.
Scarlett felt like she was burning from the inside, and Ambrose seemed determined to draw every flame out of her body and into his.
His movements were commanding, confident—he knew exactly what he was doing. They moved together, bodies intertwined, and he studied her face with dark intensity.
"Open your eyes."
She obeyed, meeting his gaze—that devastatingly handsome face now sharp with desire. She wet her lips unconsciously, and the gesture made something feral flash in his expression.
"You asked for this," he said roughly. "Tomorrow, you don't get to pretend it didn't happen. Because if you do—"
He didn't finish the threat. She'd driven him past the point of words. It was only later, as her cries filled the room, that he finally growled out the rest.
"—I'll ruin you."