Chapter 23 The Cornered Target
The lounge was mercifully quiet, mostly empty save for a few service staff. I marched into the luxurious hallway, my heart pounding, and reached the heavy wooden door to the women's restroom. Before I could turn the handle, a warm, heavy body pressed into my back, trapping me against the door.
"That's not very professional, running away from a compliment," Marco slurred softly, his Italian accent thick with wine and intent. His arms caged me, one hand resting high on the door frame, the other dropping to grip my hip.
"Marco, let go," I demanded, keeping my voice low and fierce. "This is inappropriate. I am the Chief Strategist of a rival team. Stop."
"Relax, strategist," he purred, running the tip of his nose along my temple. He shifted his weight, pinning me more firmly, and his lips found the sensitive skin beneath my ear. "Everyone knows why Rhys has you here. He uses his assets. I want to appreciate them."
The implication—that Rhys had hired me only as a mistress—was a double insult. I twisted my head violently away, a sharp, choked sound escaping my throat, and brought my elbow back hard against his ribs. He grunted, but his hold only momentarily slackened. His mouth was now on my neck, pressing wet, demanding kisses to the base of my throat. His erection pressed insistently against my abdomen. The raw panic fueled a desperate, primal response that had nothing to do with market analysis.
"Let. Go!" I hissed, using both hands to push uselessly against his broad, tuxedoed chest. My silk gown was uselessly smooth against his wool jacket; there was no friction, no leverage.
Just as I prepared to scream, the heavy double doors to the lounge slammed open.
Rhys Vance stood in the doorway, framed against the shimmering city lights. He hadn't been watching the sponsor; he had been watching Marco's exit. His tie was straight, his suit immaculate, but his face was stripped bare of all polite performance. He was pure, murderous focus.
Marco Rossi froze, his casual, drunken confidence instantly evaporating at the sight of Rhys. He pulled back from my neck with a jerk, leaving a trail of chilled, burning skin in his wake.
Rhys didn't yell. He didn't stride. He simply moved, covering the twenty feet separating us in three terrifying, silent steps.
His first action wasn't to confront Marco. He reached past Marco and grabbed my shoulder, pulling me violently sideways, ripping me free from the door and Marco’s grasp. He spun me behind him, shielding me completely with his body.
"Don't look at him," Rhys ordered, his voice a low, vibrating growl directed at the top of my head. "Don't look, Ellie."
The immediate, overwhelming priority was my safety. The cold, predatory intensity he directed at Marco was fueled by a devastating, visible fury.
"You have five seconds to remove yourself from this floor, Marco," Rhys stated, his voice barely a breath, but holding the weight of a firing line. "Or I will ensure the only thing your racing career is remembered for is the concussion you sustained at my hands."
Marco Rossi, pale now, looked deeply into Rhys's eyes and saw no bluff. "Just a bit of fun, Rhys," Marco muttered, trying to salvage his dignity, nervously wiping his own mouth.
"Fun has consequences, Marco," Rhys replied. "Apex always collects the debt."
Marco stumbled backward, his bravado utterly gone, and scrambled toward the far exit.
I stood there, trembling violently behind the solid wall of Rhys’s back, smelling the expensive cologne and the raw, earthy scent of his rage.
Rhys didn't move until the doors clicked shut behind Marco. Then he turned, his fury instantly deflating into intense, focused concern. He gently placed both hands on my shoulders, his eyes frantically searching my face.
"Where did he touch you?" he asked, his voice rough and laced with true fear. He didn't wait for an answer. He moved his hands from my shoulders down my arms, a quick, almost clinical assessment. When his eyes landed on the flushed skin beneath my ear and the slight mussing of the silk at my hip, he stopped. His jaw locked again.
Before I could speak, he dragged me forward, crushing me against his tuxedoed chest. It wasn't a comforting hug; it was a desperate, possessive grounding. I felt the powerful, frantic beat of his heart against my temple, an uneven rhythm that spoke of true terror, not just rage. He wrapped one arm tightly around my back, the other hand pressing the back of my head against his shoulder. He buried his face in my hair, inhaling sharply, as if to confirm my reality and presence.
"God," he breathed out, the word muffled and ragged against my hair. "Never again, Ellie. Never again will I let you out of my sight."
He pulled back, the embrace lasting only seconds, leaving me dizzy and shivering. He immediately pulled my jacket, which was slung over his arm, and wrapped it tightly around my shoulders, shielding me from the world and from himself.
"I'm fine," I whispered, though my heart was hammering against my ribs. "I just... needed him off me."
Rhys took my hand, not my wrist, and led me out of the hallway, his face stone. He held the button for the penthouse floor in the elevator, leaning his body against the doors, effectively barricading us.
"Tell me what he said," Rhys demanded, his eyes searching the reflection in the mirrored elevator wall. "Did he try to hurt you?"
"No," I replied, shaking my head slowly. "He just... called me an asset. And assumed things." I couldn't bring myself to voice the explicit sexual nature of the attack.
Rhys pressed his thumb into the back of my hand, a grounding pressure. "Marco Rossi will never be within ten feet of you again, Ellie. I will ruin him publicly if he attempts to breach my space. Understand me."
"The party is over," he stated, his face stone. "You will not leave the suite again without me."
His control was reasserted, but this time, it was driven by a genuine, frightening protective instinct that was far more difficult to dismiss than cold corporate strategy. He had been terrified for me. And in the space of a single minute, he had blurred the line between owner and protector beyond recognition.