Chapter 2

Audra Holmes POV:

Stepping out of the Lincoln, I folded my wet black umbrella and wiped my muddy boot soles on the marble welcome mat. The moment I crossed the threshold into Kensington Manor's foyer, the sharp scent of aged wood and hockey leather conditioner filled my lungs.

Ten meters above, a massive black iron chandelier cast cold white light down onto my faded hoodie, stretching my shadow across the polished stone floor.

At the base of the curved staircase stood a sixty-year-old man in a tailored dark gray butler's tailcoat. His gray hair was combed neat, his hands folded over his stomach, standing still as stone.

His eyes looked cloudy at first glance, yet the second our gazes met, a cold glint flashed in his pupils. A twisted scar running from his left thumb to his forearm gleamed pale under the light.

I recognized that mark instantly—a permanent shrapnel wound from close-quarters combat. This butler was a retired special forces soldier.

He took one step forward, his Oxford shoes making zero sound on the stone, and placed a half-inch-thick leather-bound manual heavily onto the carved marble table in the center of the hall.

"I am Gene Peck, Chief Butler of Kensington. On behalf of the Bond family, I welcome the substitute bride."

He pressed down hard on the word "substitute."

I stood in the draft from the doorway with my hands tucked into my hoodie pocket, my face blank.

"Speak to the point, Butler. I'm in a hurry to go upstairs and meet my legal husband."

Gene Peck's lips twitched into a cold smirk as he tapped the cover of the manual.

"Before meeting Young Master Conley, Miss Holmes must memorize the rules of Kensington. This is the home of a top NHL Captain, not a country barn."

He flipped the book open, his voice dropping low.

"Rule one: as a PR wife in name only, you are strictly forbidden from coming within three meters of the master bedroom without permission. Rule two: the underground rink and medical recovery room are restricted zones. Trespassers will be handed straight to federal security."

As he spoke, he stepped into my space. His heavy frame cast a shadow over me as his right hand rose in what looked like a polite gesture, aiming a military nerve-pinching claw straight at my left collarbone.

That grip had enough force to dislocate an ordinary girl's shoulder on the spot.

A fraction of a second before his fingertips touched my fabric, my right forearm snapped up from my side.

I slid my foot sideways, dropping my hip to dodge his center of force. My hand clamped onto the outside of his wrist, my thumb driving hard into the median nerve cluster.

Gene Peck's cloudy pupils blew wide. His entire right arm went numb under the nerve spasm, his muscles jerking as his heavy frame stumbled half a step back.

Using his momentum, I twisted his wrist clockwise and forced his two-hundred-pound body down against the marble tabletop. His own elbow smashed straight through the leather cover of the house manual.

I leaned in close to his ear, my amber eyes freezing behind the thick black frames.

"Old man, your grappling comes from the 7th Ranger Regiment's night combat manual. Too bad you're old. That wrist scar slowed your joint lock by half a second."

Cold sweat broke out across Gene Peck's forehead, his pulse hammering against my fingers. He gritted his teeth and tried to jerk free, so I pressed slightly harder on his nerve cluster, sending a jolt of pain up his spine that killed his strength.

I let go of his wrist, pulled a folded antiseptic wipe from my pocket, and slowly wiped each of my fingers right in front of him.

Gene Peck grabbed the edge of the table to steady himself, rubbing his bruised purple wrist as his throat bobbed.

"Who the hell are you... Who sent you here?"

His right hand twitched toward the Glock hidden at his lower back.

"I'm the legally registered Mrs. Bond, your employer. That's the only identity you need to know."

I balled up the used wipe and tossed it into the brass trash bin beside his leg. Hoisting my canvas backpack over one shoulder, I walked past him and climbed the dark red Persian carpet of the spiral staircase.

Down in the foyer, Gene Peck stood frozen with sweat soaking through the back of his shirt. He pressed the intercom button on his collar and hissed into the mic.

"Young Master, she's coming up... This woman is a dangerous fighter. We need to activate Red Defense Protocol immediately."

Silence hung on the line for several seconds before a deep, raspy male voice came through the speaker.

"Let her in. I want to see what kind of monster Hollis sent me."

Hearing the order, Gene Peck slowly lowered his hand from his waistband as I rounded the second-floor corner.

The thick hallway carpet swallowed my footsteps. Championship banners of the Boston team and giant posters of Conley lifting the Stanley Cup in his number 19 jersey lined the walls.

I stopped before the heavy double oak doors carved with a soaring eagle. Pale light seeped through the bottom crack, accompanied by the faint metallic scrape of wheelchair gears turning inside.

I slid three micro-thin medical silver needles into my palm, the cold tips resting against my skin. Without knocking, I gripped the brass handle, pushed it down, and shoved the heavy doors open.