Chapter 4 - Blood and Whispers
The private penthouse suite at the top of the Chicago high-rise was secured by a tactical security detail within twenty minutes, but Nathaniel refused to go to a public hospital. In his world, a hospital admission was a signal of vulnerability, an invitation for rivals to circle like sharks.
Emma stood in the lavish marble bathroom, her hands scrubbing under scalding water, trying to stop shaking. She had thrown off her ruined blazer. When she returned to the master bedroom, Nathaniel was sitting on the edge of the king-sized bed, his shirt unbuttoned and peeled away from his shoulder.
A private physician had already cleaned the wound, stitched the bullet graze along the meat of his left shoulder, administered local anesthetics, and left a tray of medical supplies on the nightstand under strict orders of confidentiality.
The door clicked shut, leaving them entirely alone.
Nathaniel looked pale beneath the amber lamp, but his jaw was clenched tight. The sight of his bare torso—scarred, muscular, and raw—made Emma’s throat tighten.
“You shouldn't have thrown yourself over me,” she said softly, walking over to the nightstand to pick up the fresh sterile gauze.
“You pushed me out of the way of the first bullet,” Nathaniel replied, his voice rough. “If you hadn't spotted that shooter, I’d be dead on that sidewalk, Emma. You saved my life.”
“I acted on instinct.”
“So did I,” he said, his dark eyes locking onto hers as she knelt between his knees to inspect the dressing.
Emma’s hands were gentle as she taped the edges of the white gauze. Her fingers brushed against his hot skin, and she heard his breath catch sharply. She froze, looking up.
He was staring at her with an intensity that made her entire body tremble. There was no corporate veneer left, no ruthless billionaire armor, no calculated cruelty. Just a man stripped down to his rawest, most dangerous desire.
“Why did you really promote me, Nathaniel?” she asked in a near-whisper, her hand resting against his uninjured collarbone. “It wasn't just because I called Dean handsome. And it wasn't just because of my work. Why do you want me near you?”
Nathaniel’s hand came up, his long fingers tangling into her dark hair, gently tilting her face up toward his.
“Because every time you walk into a room, I forget how to breathe,” he said, each word laced with a ferocious, agonizing honesty. “Because for eleven months, I watched you work across that glass partition, completely oblivious to the fact that I bought this entire company just to keep you in my sight. And when you looked at Foster yesterday... when you called him handsome... I realized that if I didn't take you, someone else would. And the thought of anyone else touching you makes me want to burn this city to the ground.”
Emma’s heart hammered a frantic rhythm against her ribs. “Nathaniel...”
“Tell me to stop,” he growled softly, his face descending toward hers until their lips were millimeters apart. “Tell me right now, Emma, or I swear to God I won't let you go.”
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She didn't tell him to stop.
Instead, she rose onto her knees and closed the distance, pressing her lips against his in a desperate, intoxicating collision of fear, adrenaline, and undeniable passion. Nathaniel groaned, his good arm wrapping around her waist and pulling her flush against his chest, claiming her mouth with a fierce, possessive hunger that set her soul on fire.
