His Accidental Cure: The Runaway Contract Wife

The Maybach pulled away from the curb, a silent, black ghost gliding through the night. A soundproof privacy partition slid up, encasing them in a small, intensely private world.

Jeanie scrambled away from him, pressing herself against the cold leather of the door. The movement sent a sharp, stabbing pain through her back, and she winced.

Instantly, Devaughn was leaning over her, his hand reaching for her waist, his expression a mixture of anger and concern. "Let me see."

"Don't touch me!" Jeanie recoiled as if burned, pushing his hand away. The humiliation of the past twenty-four hours, the terror, the confusion-it all came pouring out. "Was this all a game to you? Last night, did you know who I was? Were you just watching me make a fool of myself?"

Devaughn's hand froze in mid-air. His jaw tightened. "I didn't know it was you," he said, his voice low and strained.

"I don't believe you," she shot back, her voice trembling with rage. "A man like you? You don't know who's in your own suite? You expect me to believe that?"

She lunged for the door handle, yanking at it uselessly. "Let me out. I want out of this car. I'd rather be on the street than go back to that... that prison with you."

Click.

Devaughn hit the central lock, the sound echoing the finality of a cell door slamming shut. He moved closer, his size and presence filling the small space, leaving her no room to retreat. She was forced to crane her neck back to look at him, trapped by his proximity.

He cupped her chin, his grip firm but not painful, forcing her to meet his gaze. "Let me make your situation perfectly clear," he said, his voice a low, dangerous rumble. "Without my protection, Joel will sell you to the highest bidder before sunrise to try and save himself."

"I can take care of myself," she retorted, her pride a flimsy shield against his overwhelming power. "I don't need your charity."

Her anger surged again. "You're a liar! You talk about protection, but you break your own contracts. You have no honor!"

His eyes darkened. In a swift, sudden movement, he reached out and tugged at the collar of the shirt she was wearing-his shirt.

Jeanie gasped, trying to pull it closed, but it was too late. The dark, angry bruises on her collarbone, the marks he had left on her in the dark, were starkly visible against her pale skin.

His thumb brushed over one of the marks, the rough pad of his finger sending a shiver through her. "You're wearing my mark, Jeanie," he murmured, his voice husky. "Where do you think you can run?"

The invasive touch, the possessive words-it was too much.

SMACK.

The sound of her palm connecting with his cheek was sharp and loud in the confined space.

The driver, startled, slammed on the brakes. The car lurched, throwing Jeanie forward. Devaughn caught her effortlessly, pulling her onto his lap.

He didn't look angry. He slowly ran his tongue over the inside of his cheek where she had struck him. The look in his eyes grew darker, more intense, more dangerous.

He leaned in, his lips close to her ear, his warm breath a ghost against her skin. "My patience is limited, Jeanie," he whispered, the words a silken threat. "You need to accept reality. You will always be Mrs. Winters."

To prove his point, he captured her mouth with his.

It was nothing like the desperate, drugged haze of the night before. This was a kiss of conquest, of ownership. It was brutal and demanding, a raw display of power.

She struggled, her fists beating against his solid chest, but he simply caught her wrists in one hand, pinning them behind her back.

Her resistance faded as the need for air became overwhelming. A single, humiliating tear escaped the corner of her eye and traced a path down her temple.

Devaughn tasted the salt of her tear and froze. The raw hunger in his eyes flickered, replaced by something unreadable. He broke the kiss, a muscle twitching in his jaw.

He pushed her back into her seat, pulling his jacket tightly around her again, cocooning her. He turned his head to stare out the window at the blur of city lights, a silent, brooding statue of a man.