His to Protect

Chapter 2

I wake up to silence, which in this house is basically a fire alarm.

Dad's gone—left before dawn for some emergency that couldn't wait until after my party. The note on my nightstand is characteristically brief: ‘Emergency with Singapore, but I’ll be back for your party. Don't do anything reckless until then, sweetheart.’

Which is rich, considering I triple-check the stove is off before leaving the house.

And I don’t cook. Ever.

Dad made sure of that with all of the help in our mansion. Raising and guarding properly the billionaire’s heiress I am and all.

The summer heat is already oppressive at nine in the morning and I lie in my bed for a while, staring at the ceiling and trying not to think about cryptic arguments or the way Hugh looked at me over dinner. Or in his room.

Like I was a puzzle he desperately wanted to solve. With his mouth.

Okay, I'm totally thinking about that.

By noon, I'm restless and the walls feel like they're closing in. So I do what any reasonable person does when faced with an existential crisis: I decide to exercise it away.

The pool is perfect—crystal blue and deserted. I dive in and immediately feel better. There's something about being underwater that makes the world go quiet in the best way.

I swim laps. And more laps. My muscles burn in that good way, but somewhere around the half hour mark, things start to feel... off.

At first it's just lightheadedness and I pause at the shallow end, gripping the edge, waiting for it to pass. It doesn't, my vision blurs at the edges.

Then my limbs turn to lead.

I try to push toward the ladder—it's right there, maybe three feet away—but my arms won't cooperate. They're moving through molasses, and the panic hits the exact moment water closes over my head.

I'm sinking. Actually fucking sinking.

I can't move, can't call for help, can't do anything except watch the surface get farther away.

This is gonna be so stupid of me to die this way and that young.

Suddenly, strong hands grip my arms, yanking me upward with enough force that it almost hurts. Air and sunlight hit my face as I break the surface before being hauled out of the water and lowered onto one of the pool loungers.

Warm and big palms on my face, tilting my head. A voice, sharp with command: "Breathe. Focus on me. Come on, Claire, breathe."

I'm coughing up water, my lungs burning and my whole body shaking despite the heat. When my vision finally clears enough to focus, I find Hugh crouched beside me.

His expensive suit is completely soaked through, water dripping from his hair onto his shoulders, expression harder than I've ever seen it. But his hands are gentle as they brush wet hair away from my face.

"What the hell were you thinking, swimming alone with a fever?"

His voice is rough, almost angry, but it sounds like fear underneath. I'm still trying to catch my breath, still trying to process that Hugh is here, with me. The way his wet shirt clings to his chest is doing nothing for my ability to form coherent thoughts.

"I don't…" I manage between gasps. "I just got… dizzy. I'm fine."

"You're not fine." He cuts me off, jaw tight as he leans closer. "I came to retrieve documents for your father and instead see you from the window, drowning."

Without thinking, my hands reach up and fist in the wet fabric of his shirt. I pull myself even closer, pressing my face in some unconscious need against his chest because somehow his scent cuts through the chlorine and panic.

Cedar and something wild. Somehow, it makes my racing heart beat slower.

"Claire." His voice sounds strangled. "What are you…"

"You smell so good…" I murmured against him, still dazed, nuzzling into the solid warmth of his chest.

Safe. He smells like safety and it’s completely intoxicating and exactly what I needed before I even knew it.

His entire body goes rigid after my words as if it struck him right in the gut, every muscle turning to stone.

For one heartbeat, his hand comes up to cup the back of my head and fingers threading through my wet hair, pressing me closer. Then he makes a rough sound in his throat—half growl, half groan—and practically launches himself away from me.

One of the housekeepers appears with towels like she's been waiting in the wings for her cue and Hugh takes one, draping it around my shoulders with careful, impersonal efficiency that feels like a wall slamming into place.

"Call a doctor," he tells her. "Make sure someone stays with her."

"I said I'm fine," I insist. "I just got overheated…"

His eyes flash. "You could have drowned."

There's this moment of loaded silence where I become acutely aware that I'm sitting here in nothing but my bikini—the skimpy red one that makes my boobs look amazing and barely qualifies as fabric.

That the wet fabric clings to every barely hidden curve. That Hugh's gaze flickers down for just a fraction of a second before he wrenches it back to my face, his jaw tight with the effort.

"Thank you…" I say quietly. "For saving my life."

He's already turning away. "I need to change. Get those documents." He pauses, his back to me. "Don't swim alone again when you’re not feeling well, Claire."

It sounds less like a suggestion and more like an order. Then he's gone, and I'm sitting there wrapped in a towel, replaying the moment I pressed myself against him and he held me back.

Just for a second, before forcing himself to let go.

The doctor arrives an hour later and pronounces me dehydrated and overtired but otherwise fine. But I can't stop thinking about how Hugh looked when his carefully constructed walls cracked wide open.

By evening, I've had a long bath and convinced myself I'm perfectly normal and not at all affected by the day's events. This is a lie, but I'm committed to it.

I'm in my room wearing only a thin camisole and my favorite cotton panties, my hair still damp on my shoulders, when there's a knock at my door. Perhaps it's the housekeeper checking on me for the fiftieth time, like I’m still a fucking child.

Except I open the door to find Hugh, and his eyes immediately drop before he can stop himself.

It's like watching someone lose a battle with their own willpower in real-time.

His gaze sweeps down my body—taking in the thin camisole that leaves absolutely nothing to the imagination, the way my nipples are clearly visible through the fabric, the expanse of bare legs that goes on for days.

His pupils dilate like he's been drugged, and his jaw tightens so hard I'm worried he might crack a molar as he forces his gaze back to my face.

"I…" His voice comes out hoarse until he clears his throat and starts again. "The doctor said you were fine, but I needed to see for myself."

"And?" I lean against the doorframe, making no move to cover myself. "Do I look fine to you?"

The question comes out more provocative than I intended. Or maybe exactly as provocative as I intended. Anyway, his hands clench at his sides, knuckles going white.

"Claire." My name sounds like a warning.

"Hugh." I mirror his tone, and something dangerous flashes in his eyes.

"You should put on more clothes."

"Why would I?" I tilt my head, playing dumb. "This is my bedroom, I wasn't expecting visitors."

"I'm not…" He takes a breath, visibly struggling for control. "I just came to check on you."

"And you've checked." I don't step back. Neither does he. "Anything else?"

The air between us feels combustible as his gaze drops to my lips, lingering there for a moment too long. When he speaks, his voice is rough.

"You shouldn't have been out there alone, you could have died. Do you understand that?"

"I understand you saved me." I reach out, my fingers brushing his where they're clenched at his side. The contact sends that familiar but still strange electricity up my arm. "Unless you keep finding reasons to put your hands on me."

His breath catches and for one endless moment, I think he's going to step forward. Going to close the distance between us and do something we can't take back. What I desperately wanted him to do for over a year now.

Instead, he steps back like I've burned him.

"Happy early birthday, Claire." The words come out strained, almost pained, as he turns and walks away before I can respond.

I close the door and lean against it, my heart pounding, my skin flushed with heat that has nothing to do with fever.

Drowning might have been less dangerous than whatever this is.