Protecting My Vengeful Queen From The Shadows

The heavy oak door swung inward. Brenton Harding stepped into the suite, a predatory smile playing on his lips. He saw Khloe standing with her back to him by the bar and his smile widened. Perfect. The drug was working. She was waiting for him, just as planned.

"There you are," he murmured, his voice a low purr. He began to close the distance between them, unbuttoning the custom jacket she'd made him. "I was getting impatient, baby."

He reached out, his hand aiming for the curve of her waist, his fingers ready to dig into the soft silk of her dress. He imagined her turning, her eyes hazy with desire and confusion, pliable and weak.

The moment his fingertips brushed the fabric, she moved.

It wasn't the slow, drugged turn he expected. It was a pivot, sharp and impossibly fast. He saw her eyes for a split second. They were not hazy. They were clear, focused, and filled with a coldness that made the breath catch in his throat.

Then he saw the crystal decanter, a blur of motion arcing through the air.

The world exploded in a starburst of pain against his temple. A sickening, wet thud echoed in the silent room. Brenton staggered back, a grunt of shock and agony escaping his lips. His vision swam.

"What the..." he slurred, touching his head. His fingers came away wet and dark with blood. "Khloe? Are you insane?"

He looked at her, truly looked at her, and saw a stranger. The timid, eager-to-please girl he'd molded for years was gone. In her place stood a woman with the eyes of a executioner.

She didn't answer. As he swayed, trying to clear his head, she swung the decanter again. This time, she aimed lower. The heavy crystal crashed against his wrist with a crack of bone.

A raw scream tore from his throat. His phone, which he'd been holding, clattered to the thick carpet. Khloe's heel shot out, kicking the device with brutal efficiency. It skidded across the room and disappeared under a heavy velvet armchair. No calls for help.

Brenton lunged, driven by a surge of adrenaline and fury. But his legs felt strangely heavy, his movements sluggish. A wave of dizziness washed over him. The drug. He'd only had a sip of the champagne himself, just to get in the mood. He never thought...

Khloe's smile was a slash of crimson in her pale face. She knew. She had to know.

She pressed her advantage, shoving him backward with a strength he never knew she possessed. He stumbled, his uncoordinated limbs betraying him, and fell back onto the plush sofa.

Before he could even try to get up, she was on him. Her knee pressed down hard on his chest, pinning him, stealing the air from his lungs. He was a man who prided himself on his physical fitness, on his power, but he was utterly helpless.

The woman straddling him was terrifying. Her face was a mask of cold fury, her movements economical and deadly.

She tossed the blood-stained decanter aside. It landed on the carpet with a soft thud. Her hands went to his neck, not to his throat, but to the silk tie knotted perfectly there. With a single, sharp tug, she ripped it free.

Then, she began to wrap it around his neck.

"Khloe, stop," he rasped, his voice choked with fear. The silk tightened. He clawed at her hands, her arms, but his strength was fading fast. Black spots danced in his vision.

She leaned down, her lips close to his ear, her voice a venomous whisper that only he could hear.

"This," she hissed, pulling the tie tighter, "is for every lie you ever told me."

His eyes widened in confusion. What was she talking about?

"And this," she continued, the pressure increasing, his lungs burning, "is for the man you'll become on your wedding day. A murderer."

His wedding day? They were at their engagement party. She was delirious. She was insane.

The world was going gray. The sounds of the hotel, the city outside, faded into a dull roar in his ears. He was going to die. Here. At the hands of the woman he thought he owned.

Just as his consciousness was about to shatter, the pressure vanished.

Khloe released the tie. She had timed it perfectly.

Brenton gasped, dragging in a ragged, desperate breath. He coughed, his throat raw, his body trembling uncontrollably. He was alive, but only because she had allowed it.

She didn't want him dead. Not yet. She wanted him ruined.

As if on cue, a commotion erupted from the hallway outside the suite. The sound of running footsteps, a woman's faux-panicked voice shouting Brenton's name. Arabella Vance. And the unmistakable murmur of reporters.

Right on schedule.

Khloe slid off him, her movements fluid and graceful. She stood up, calmly smoothing the front of her dress, which was now slightly wrinkled from the struggle.

She glanced down at the pathetic, gasping man on the sofa. His expensive suit was stained with his own blood, his face a mask of terror and confusion. There was no pity in her eyes. Not a flicker.

She knew the real show was just about to begin.