He carried her back to the estate not as a savior, but as a conqueror reclaiming lost territory, his touch both a brand of possession and a shield against the world he'd unleashed upon her.
The gunshot had been a single, sharp punctuation in the storm's chaos. Alistair hadn't killed the man, merely sent a bullet whining past his ear, a whisper of mortality that sent the shadows scattering back into the night. His focus had been absolute, a laser targeting her. He had holstered the weapon, strode through the mud without a single glance at the fleeing figures, and knelt before her. His hands, which had wielded contracts and caresses with equal mastery, framed her face, his thumbs smearing the blood and rain from her cheeks. His eyes, wild and ferocious, scanned her for injuries.
"Are you hurt?" The question was a rough demand, stripped of its usual cultured veneer.
She could only shake her head, mute with shock and a terrifying, unwelcome surge of relief at the sight of him. He was the devil she knew, and the night had just introduced her to far worse ones.
Without another word, he scooped her into his arms as if she weighed nothing. The shock of his body heat against her rain-chilled skin was a jolt. She was too stunned, too weak to fight him. Her head lolled against his shoulder, the steady, powerful thud of his heart a frantic drum against her ear, a rhythm that spoke of his own fear, his own fury. He carried her up the treacherous embankment as if it were a paved walkway, his strength an unyielding fortress. The scent of him — rain, cold night air, and the faint, clean spice of his cologne — was a familiar anchor in the maelstrom.
Back at the estate, it was not the quiet, grieving house she had left. It was a fortress on high alert. Silent, efficient staff moved with new purpose. Alistair carried her straight through the grand foyer, ignoring the wide-eyed stares, and up the sweeping staircase to her room. He didn't set her down until he was in the adjoining bathroom, lowering her gently onto a velvet-upholstered stool.
He was a whirlwind of terrifying, focused energy. He ran a bath, his movements economical, his back to her as steam began to fog the mirrors. He poured salts that smelled of lavender and chamomile, a bizarre, domestic act from a man who had just wielded a gun. When the tub was full, he turned to her, his gaze sweeping over her torn, muddy clothes.
"Can you undress, or do you need help?"
His voice was still rough, but the edge had softened into something that sounded almost like care. It was more disorienting than his rage. She shook her head, clutching the edges of her sweater. A flicker of something — impatience, concern — crossed his face, but he simply nodded and left, closing the door behind him with a soft, definitive click.
Later, cleaned and dressed in soft, unfamiliar pajamas that had appeared as if by magic, she was tucked into the vast bed. A doctor, summoned from some unseen wing of the house, had come and gone, pronouncing her bruised and shocked, but otherwise whole. A sedative was administered, and a warm, heavy languor began to seep into her bones.
Through the drugged haze, she saw Alistair standing in the doorway, his silhouette dark against the hall light. He had changed into dry, dark clothes. The man who had carried her from the wreckage was gone, replaced once more by the CEO, the strategist. But his eyes, when they met hers, held a new, grim resolve.
He left her then, and the silence of the room was filled with the phantom sounds of screeching tires and his voice, cold and absolute. She belongs to me.
Downstairs, in his soundproofed study, the veneer of control shattered. He poured a whiskey, his hand trembling so violently the decanter clinked against the glass. The image of her, small and broken in the mud, flashed behind his eyes. It was a sight that would haunt him longer than any memory of his father.
Markus entered without knocking, his face a granite mask of foreboding. "The car is a ghost. Rented under a shell corporation that traces back to a holding company in the Caymans. Untouchable."
Alistair downed the whiskey, the burn doing nothing to quell the ice in his veins. "The men?"
"Professionals. They vanished. But the method…" Markus paused, his jaw tight. "The way they forced her off the road, the clean extraction attempt… it has the fingerprints of the Sable Group."
The name landed in the room like a physical blow. Alistair went perfectly still, the glass freezing halfway to his lips. The color drained from his face, his knuckles whitening around the crystal.
He turned slowly, his eyes, wide with a dawning, historic horror, locking with Markus's.
"The Sable Group," he repeated, his voice a hollow whisper. "They were my father's problem."