Chapter 8 - His Hand on Her Pulse
The interior of the helicopter was luxurious, upholstered in cream leather and soundproofed against the deafening turbine roar, but to Margaux, it felt like an interrogation cell traveling at one hundred and forty knots.
The pilot had banked hard out over the ink-black expanse of Lake Michigan, heading north toward the private shoreline estates of Lake Forest. Below them, the glittering golden grid of Chicago’s skyline looked peaceful, entirely oblivious to the blood that had just been spilled atop its grandest landmark.
Adrian sat slumped against the leather bench, his head tilted back against the bulkhead, his eyes closed. His breathing was shallow, his shirt completely soaked in blood from his shoulder down to his waist.
A crewman handed Margaux a comprehensive medical trauma kit before returning to the cockpit partition.
""He needs a hospital,"" Margaux said, her voice shaking as she snapped open the sterile shears.
""No hospitals,"" Adrian murmured, not opening his eyes. ""Hospitals have state reporting requirements. Gunshot wounds require police notification. I don't need the Cook County Sheriff asking questions while we’re securing Moretti’s assets.""
""You have a hole in your shoulder!""
""It's a through-and-through,"" Adrian said, his eyelids fluttering open, dark and feverish. ""Clean puncture. Missed the bone. Hand me the antiseptic.""
""Don't tell me how to do trauma care,"" Margaux snapped, using the shears to cut away the remainder of his bloody shirt, exposing his chest and shoulder.
Up close, his torso was an intimidating map of violence and discipline. Beneath the broad expanse of muscle lay three distinct, pale scar lines—old knife wounds and bullet grazes from battles fought long before she ever crashed into him in that gilded corridor.
She poured the iodine solution over the wound. Adrian didn't flinch. He merely reached out, his uninjured right hand coming up to rest gently around her wrist.
His grip wasn't forceful. It was warm, steady, anchoring her trembling hands.
""You're good at this,"" he said softly, watching her face as she packed the wound with sterile gauze and bound it tightly with medical tape.
""I grew up with three brothers in South Boston,"" she muttered, keeping her eyes fixed on the bandage, refusing to look into his gaze. ""I’ve patched up broken noses, split lips, and hockey skate cuts since I was twelve. This isn't that different.""
""Except hockey players don't have Julian Moretti hunting them.""
Margaux secured the final strip of tape, letting out a long, ragged exhale. She sat back on her heels on the cabin floor, her hands resting in her lap, suddenly exhausted beyond measure.
""What happens now, Adrian?"" she asked, her voice small and vulnerable in the quiet cabin. ""Julianne Sterling is in your basement. Moretti’s men are dead at the Drake. The police will find the bodies. My name is on the master vendor log. I can't go back to Lumiere Events.""
Adrian leaned forward slowly, ignoring the pain in his shoulder, until he was looking down at her. He reached out with his uninjured hand, his fingers sliding into her damp hair, tilting her face up toward his.
""You will never work for Lumiere Events again,"" he said, his voice dropping into a deep, possessive cadence that made her chest tighten.
""Is that a threat?""
""It's a promotion,"" he whispered. ""By midnight tomorrow, Voss Maritime will own Lumiere Events. And you will be the Chief Operating Officer of the entire entertainment and hospitality division.""
Margaux stared at him, incredulous. ""You think you can just buy my life? Buy my silence? Buy me?""
""I don't want to buy your silence, Margaux,"" Adrian said, his gaze locking onto her lips with undeniable hunger. ""I want your fire. I want the only woman in this city who looked me in the eye, called me 'sweetheart,' and then threw a thirty-pound fire extinguisher at an armed assassin to keep me breathing.""
""Adrian—""
He didn't let her finish. He pulled her up onto the seat beside him, his mouth capturing hers in a kiss that was neither gentle nor polite.
It was dark, commanding, and filled with the raw, untamed possessiveness of a man who had stared into the grave and chosen to live. Margaux’s breath hitched, her hands instinctively clutching his uninjured shoulder, intending to push him away—but the sheer intensity of his lips, the taste of rain, salt, and raw adrenaline, shattered her defenses.
May you like
She leaned into him, her fingers tangling in the thick hair at the nape of his neck, kissing him back with all the pent-up fury and terror of the night. When he finally pulled back, resting his forehead against hers, his thumb caressed her cheek.
""You're in my world now, Margaux,"" he murmured, his breath hot against her skin. ""And I don't let go of what belongs to me.""
