Flash Marriage To The Ruthless Heir

The rough texture of a Persian rug scraped against Chloe Beaumont's cheek.

She could smell cheap perfume clinging to her skin—a scent that wasn't hers. It was cloying, sweet, and wrong.

A deep, unfamiliar heat pulsed through her veins, a fire she couldn't control. It made her stomach clench. She knew, with a sickening certainty, that she had been drugged.

She tried to push herself up. The room swam in and out of focus, a dizzying blur of opulent furniture and glittering surfaces. Far across the suite, floor-to-ceiling windows revealed the diamond-sharp skyline of Manhattan at night.

Her limbs felt like lead. She needed to get to the door. Each movement was a monumental effort, like wading through thick, invisible mud.

She stumbled, her hand flailing, and knocked an empty whiskey glass off a side table.

The sound of shattering glass was sharp and loud in the crushing silence.

From the darkness of a bedroom deep within the suite, a low growl answered. It was a raw, animal sound, thick with pain and menace.

Chloe's heart seized in her chest. A sliver of adrenaline cut through the drug-induced haze.

She was not alone.

A tall figure emerged from the shadows of the bedroom. He was shirtless, his broad shoulders and the hard planes of his back muscles silhouetted by the moonlight pouring through the window. He looked dangerous.

The man didn't look at her. He strode to the bar, grabbed a full bottle of whiskey, and tilted it back, drinking straight from the neck. The muscles in his throat worked as he swallowed, a gesture both wild and desperate.

Chloe froze, shrinking behind a sofa, trying to make herself invisible.

The alcohol seemed to agitate him further. With a roar of frustration, he hurled the bottle against the wall. It exploded in a shower of glass and amber liquid.

A small, terrified gasp escaped Chloe's lips.

The sound was like a switch. The man's head snapped in her direction, his entire focus locking onto her.

He turned. In the dim light, his deep gray eyes were like burning coals, pinning her in place.

Chloe saw them then—the scars that crisscrossed his wrists. They were old and deep, a shocking testament to some past torment.

"Who sent you?" His voice was a low, gravelly rasp, laced with suspicion and a chilling promise of violence.

Chloe tried to speak, to explain, but the drug surged again. A pathetic moan was all that came out. Her body, desperate for relief from the internal fire, instinctively crawled toward any source of coolness.

To him, her movement looked like a clumsy, pathetic seduction. A flicker of violent disgust crossed his face.

He moved toward her, each step deliberate and heavy. The air grew thick with his presence, a potent mix of expensive cedarwood and raw whiskey. He was a predator, and she was trapped.

He crouched in front of her. Rough fingertips gripped her chin, forcing her head up. He studied her, his gaze clinical and cold as it swept over her flushed skin and the drug-hazed green of her eyes.

"A new tactic? Pathetic." He sneered, but as his skin touched hers, a tremor ran through his hand.

The aggressive tension in his posture seemed to dissolve.

His pupils contracted in shock. He stared at the intruder, this woman, as if she were both a deadly poison and his only salvation.

Chloe's instincts took over. She pressed closer to the cool, solid presence of his hand, a desperate attempt to quell the heat consuming her. Her fingers curled, weak but determined, around his muscular forearm.

The contact was electric. His entire body went rigid, the tremors in his arm ceasing instantly.

The murder in his eyes was replaced by something else. Something deeper and darker. Desire. And a desperate, losing battle against it.

He surrendered.

With a guttural groan, he scooped her up from the floor. He held her tight against his chest, her fevered skin a balm against his own cold torment, and strode back toward the bedroom.

The heavy door clicked shut, sealing them off from the world. There was only the sound of ragged breaths and two souls, lost in a night of controlled demolition.

Hours later, as the first hint of dawn grayed the sky, Chloe woke to a body that ached and a head that pounded. The drug had worn off, leaving behind a dull, throbbing hangover.

She looked at the man sleeping beside her. His face, in repose, was as flawlessly carved as a Renaissance statue. But the deep furrow between his brows and the pale, tight line of his lips revealed a sleep that was anything but peaceful.

Fragments of the night returned in jagged, shameful flashes. Fear, cold and sharp, pierced through her daze. She had to get out.

Silently, she slipped out of the bed, biting back a whimper as her sore muscles protested. She gathered the scattered pieces of a cheap, unfamiliar dress from the floor.

She risked one last look at the man. She burned his face into her memory—the stranger who had taken her innocence.

Tiptoeing like a thief, Chloe escaped the presidential suite. She jabbed the elevator button, her heart hammering against her ribs.

As the elevator doors slid shut, a floor below, Damien Stone's hand uncurled. The deep line between his brows smoothed out. For the first time in five years, he slept without the screaming of his nightmares.