The Ice Prince's Runaway Fiancée

Ellie POV:

My limbs hung useless, but my mind was operating at full tactical capacity.

I took in the man holding me: six-foot-three, roughly two hundred and twenty pounds of lean, functional muscle. The explosive power in his shoulders and the balance in his hips screamed elite athlete—specifically, a power skater who lived on the ice. His tailored charcoal suit couldn't hide the bruising along his knuckles or the hyper-focused intensity in his jaw. Beneath the rage in his ice-blue eyes lurked something raw and jagged. Desperation. Fear of loss.

He wasn't an ordinary thug. He moved like a man accustomed to commanding arenas and enforcing his will without contradiction.

I forced air against my vocal cords, fighting the neurotoxin. "Y-you... wrong..."

He let out a short, mocking laugh. "Save the amateur acting, Spencer. You're coming with me."

He hauled me over his right shoulder like a sack of grain, his grip iron-clad around my thighs. Blood rushed to my head as he marched out of the shop. The sharp ridge of his collarbone dug into my ribs, but I kept my eyes wide open, tracking every turn: right out of the doorway, thirty yards past the alley, cutting across the corner.

Then we hit the street, and the breath left my lungs.

The entire commercial block was locked down. No civilian traffic. No pedestrians.

Lined along both curbs were over a dozen pitch-black Cadillac Escalades, idling in synchronized low rumbles. Stationed every five yards stood men in matching dark suits with tactical earpieces—roughly ninety to one hundred security personnel forming an impenetrable human wall. The slight bulge beneath their left armpits confirmed concealed sidearms.

The moment the man carrying me stepped onto the pavement, every guard snapped to attention, executing a coordinated, military-grade bow.

"Mr. Leon," a lead agent murmured, stepping forward to pull open the door of an armored, extended Escalade.

Leon. The name rattled through my mental archives.

My escape calculation was immediate and bleak: zero mobility, no voice, a hundred trained guards sealing the perimeter, and an armored vehicle. A violent breakout was statistically impossible. I had to play the long game.

He tossed me onto the leather bench seat. My temple banged against the tinted window, sending white spots dancing across my vision. Before I could reorient my slumping torso, he slid in beside me and slammed the heavy door shut, sealing us in soundproofed isolation.

The air inside felt instantly compressed. He leaned over me, his massive frame blotting out the light.

"Still glaring at me?" he sneered.

His hand reached into my jacket pocket. I tried to pull back, but my muscles offered only a faint tremor. He pulled out my smartphone—my only link to my real identity, my bank accounts, my emergency contacts.

Without looking at the screen, he cracked the window an inch and hurled the phone into the street. A guard outside caught it cleanly, dropped it to the asphalt, and crushed it beneath the heel of his tactical boot. The crunch of shattered glass and lithium was muffled, but absolute.

"You don't need that anymore," he said, rolling the window back up.

I closed my eyes. Panic would burn precious glucose. Instead, I began tracking my internal clock, estimating the neurotoxin's half-life. Devil's Thorn sap: neuromuscular blockade peaks at fifteen minutes, plateaus for forty-five, then degrades as liver enzymes metabolize the compound. I had roughly two hours until full motor recovery.

I opened my mouth, forcing out another hoarse whisper: "W-wrong... person..."

He leaned close, his cold breath brushing my ear. "Begging already? Too late."

He raised a hand as if to cover my eyes, annoyed by my unyielding stare. But instead of flinching, I held his gaze with cold, clinical defiance. His fingers hovered in mid-air, a subtle hesitation cracking his arrogant composure before he dropped his hand and sneered.

The convoy surged forward in silent, terrifying unison. He thought he had captured a petulant runaway. He had no idea he was transporting a caged viper counting down the seconds until the venom wore off.