Chapter 2 - The Price of Protection
“Sullivan knows who you are,” James said quietly, his hand shifting slightly against my hip, his thumb brushing a slow circle against the fabric of my dress. The intimacy of the gesture clashed violently with the calculating coldness in his eyes. “Or at least, he knows you aren't on my payroll. If he realizes why you're here, he won't just keep the codex. He'll use you to leverage my supply lines through the harbor.”
“Then let me go,” I whispered, though my feet felt rooted to the custom hardwood beneath us. “I can slip out through the service exit while everyone is distracted by the main bidding block.”
“And walk straight into Sullivan’s enforcers waiting in the alley?” James shook his head. A dark, resolute shadow crossed his face. “When I declared you mine in that vault, Clara, it wasn't just a theatrical performance to throw Sullivan off balance. In this city, claiming something publicly means defending it permanently.”
“I don't need a keeper,” I shot back, though my pulse hammered wildly against my ribs. “I need that manuscript.”
“And you will get it,” he replied, his voice dropping into a register so low and resonant it made my knees weak. “But on my terms. Stay close to me for the rest of the evening. Let the room believe whatever they want to believe about us. When the auction concludes, my security detail will retrieve the crate directly from the vault and load it into my private car.”
“And my cousins?” I asked, searching his face for any sign of deceit. “They hired local muscle. If I walk out empty-handed, or if they find out I was here, my estate will be liquidated by morning.”
“Your cousins are minor players working with stolen capital,” James said with absolute, chilling detachment. “By sunrise, their accounts will be frozen, their contracts canceled, and their legal representation disqualified. Let me handle the chess board, Clara. Your only job tonight is to look breathtaking and stay by my side.”
Before I could formulate a retort, the auctioneer’s gavel struck the mahogany podium out in the main hall, signaling the start of the high-tier acquisitions. The low murmur of the crowd shifted into rapt attention.
James didn't wait for my agreement. He laced his fingers through mine, his grip firm, warm, and completely inescapable, leading me out of the alcove and toward the front row of velvet-upholstered seats. Every head turned as we approached. Senators, tech barons, and underworld figures alike stared at the formidable James Thornton walking hand-in-hand with an unknown woman in a borrowed black dress.
Out of the corner of my eye, I saw Patrick Sullivan watching us from a raised gallery box, swirling amber liquid in a crystal glass. His smile was thin and predatory.
“He’s setting a trap,” I murmured as James seated me beside him, keeping his body positioned perfectly between me and Sullivan's line of sight.
May you like
“Let him try,” James replied softly. He leaned down, his lips brushing the shell of my ear as the first lot was rolled onto the stage. The scent of cedar and expensive cologne washed over me. “I own the ground he stands on. He just doesn’t know the mortgage is due.”
As the bidding commenced, the air grew thick with tension. Millions of dollars changed hands with the flick of a paddle or a nod of a head. But my focus wasn't on the priceless art or the ancient relics. It was on the heavy warmth of James’s hand resting purposefully on my knee, anchoring me to a man who was equal parts danger and salvation.
