Flash Marriage To My Mysterious Bodyguard

Aurelia leaned her back against the solid wood of the door, the latch clicking shut with a sound of finality. She let out a long, slow breath she hadn't realized she was holding. The adrenaline that had flooded her system began to recede, leaving a tremor in its wake. Her legs felt weak, like they might give out from under her.

The room was quiet again, but the air was thick with unspoken things.

Hart didn't look at her. He walked past, his long legs eating up the space in the suite. His leather shoes made no sound on the thick carpet as he approached Finch, whom he had hauled back inside for questioning just before the door latched. The man was still whimpering on the floor, scrambling backward, crab-walking away until his back hit the leg of a sofa.

Hart crouched down, his large frame eclipsing Finch completely. He stared into the man's terrified eyes, a predator studying its cornered prey. A low, guttural sound of fear escaped Finch's throat.

With a swift, almost contemptuous motion, Hart reached out and ripped the towel from Finch's mouth.

Finch gasped for air, his chest heaving. "Do you have any idea who I am?" he rasped, the threat empty, his voice shaking.

Hart didn't answer. A small, cold smile touched his lips. He reached into his own pocket and pulled out Finch's phone. The screen lit up, displaying a string of unread messages. He dangled it in front of Finch's face.

A knock at the door. Three sharp, professional raps.

Hart's hand clamped over Finch's mouth before the man could make a sound. His eyes, cold and flat, promised violence. Finch went still.

"Miss Beaumont? Floor manager. Noise complaint from the adjoining suite. Is everything all right?"

Hart was already at the door. He opened it a crack, his body filling the gap. When he spoke, his voice had changed—smooth, polished, the tone of a man who belonged in a penthouse. "Apologies. My employer stumbled. Heel caught the marble. We're turning in for the night."

A pause. "Of course, sir. My apologies."

The door clicked shut. Hart turned back. Aurelia stared at him. The switch—from brute force to polished professionalism in the space of a breath—was not normal.

Aurelia pushed herself off the door and walked over to the armchair Hart had vacated. She sank into it, crossing her legs, the borrowed shirt riding up her thighs. She tried to project an image of control, of a queen on her throne, watching the proceedings with detached interest.

Hart swiped the screen open and tapped on the message thread. Then, he angled the phone so Aurelia could see.

The name at the top of the screen was Celeste.

The last message sent was chillingly clear: The drug should have kicked in by now. Just go right in.

The words burned into Aurelia's mind. A cold, hard knot formed in her stomach. Her fingers dug into the plush velvet of the armrest, her knuckles turning white.

She stood up.

She walked towards Finch, her steps measured and deliberate. She stood over him, her shadow falling across his pale, sweating face. The disgust she felt was a physical thing, a sour taste in her mouth.

"It was Celeste," Finch babbled, his eyes darting between Aurelia and Hart. "She set it all up! She said you were easy, that you'd be grateful for the attention!"

Aurelia's expression didn't change. She lifted her foot and brought her heel down hard on his outstretched hand.

A sharp crack, followed by a scream of pure agony.

The sound echoed in the silent suite. Finch cradled his hand, his face contorted in pain. From the corner of her eye, Aurelia saw Hart's eyebrow lift in a gesture of silent, grim approval.

"Besides the drugs," Aurelia said, her voice a whipcrack in the quiet room, "what else was part of the plan?"

Sweat beaded on Finch's forehead. "A camera," he gasped, his voice tight with pain. "A hidden camera. To record everything."

Aurelia's blood ran cold.

Hart was already moving. He walked to the large media console across the room. Without hesitation, he reached up into the HVAC vent above the television. His fingers probed for a moment before he pulled his hand back.

Clutched between his thumb and forefinger was a tiny black device, no bigger than a button.

He tossed it onto the carpet. Then, he raised his foot and brought the heel of his expensive leather shoe down on it. The crunch of plastic and electronics breaking was loud and satisfying. Finch flinched at the sound.

Aurelia watched him, a sliver of suspicion cutting through her anger. The way he moved, the efficiency of his actions... it wasn't normal.

"Have you had professional training?" she asked, her voice sharp. Her eyes were locked on his face, searching for a crack in his calm facade.

Hart didn't miss a beat. He bent down to adjust the cuff of his sleeve, his expression unreadable.

"I served overseas for a few years," he said, his tone flat. It was a perfect, generic backstory for a high-end security professional. Plausible. Untraceable.

Aurelia held his gaze for a moment longer, then looked away. She didn't fully believe him, but she had more pressing issues.

"Get him out of here," she ordered, waving a dismissive hand at the whimpering man on the floor. "I don't want to see him again."

"Yes, ma'am."

Hart grabbed Finch by the collar, hauling him to his feet as if he weighed nothing. Finch, his fight completely gone, stumbled along, a puppet with its strings cut. Hart dragged him not to the main door, but to a service entrance she hadn't even noticed, hidden behind a tapestry.

The door clicked shut, and she was alone.

The sudden silence was deafening. A wave of dizziness washed over her. The last dregs of the drug, combined with the adrenaline crash, hit her all at once. She swayed, reaching out a hand to brace herself against the wall.

Her mind, no longer focused on the fight, betrayed her. Flashes of the night before—fragmented, chaotic, and hot—assaulted her. A strong hand on her waist. The scent of sandalwood and something uniquely masculine. A low voice murmuring in her ear.

She squeezed her eyes shut, pressing her fingers to the bridge of her nose, trying to force the images away.

The service door opened and Hart stepped back in. He saw her instantly, saw the way she was leaning against the wall, her knuckles white. He was across the room in three long strides.

He reached out to steady her.

The moment his fingertips brushed her shoulder, she recoiled as if she'd been burned.

"Don't touch me!" The words were a raw gasp.

She scrambled backward, away from him, until her back hit the cool plaster of the opposite wall. Her eyes were wide, filled with a wild, cornered panic.

Hart's hand froze in mid-air. A flicker of something—hurt, maybe—crossed his face before it was replaced by his usual stoic mask.

He took a slow, deliberate step back, raising his hands slightly in a gesture of surrender. He was giving her space.

Aurelia dragged in a ragged breath, then another, forcing the panic down. She pushed herself off the wall, her spine rigid. When she looked at him again, her face was a mask of ice.

She walked to her purse, which was lying on the floor by the bed. She picked it up, her movements stiff.

"You can go now," she said, her voice devoid of all emotion. "I'll have my assistant wire your payment. And a bonus, for your... discretion."

She was cutting him off, reducing what had happened between them to a transaction. A service rendered. A bill to be paid.

Hart's jaw tightened. The air in the room grew heavy, dangerous. His eyes, which had been calm moments before, now smoldered with a dark, unreadable fire.