Chapter 3

Audra Holmes POV:

The heavy oak doors swung shut behind me, the mechanical lock clicking into place and cutting off the hallway.

Inside the massive suite, the overhead lights were off. Only pine logs crackled in the fireplace, casting a dim red glow through air thick with the bitter smell of bourbon and ice-pack pain spray.

The instant my heel touched the rug, a sharp whistle tore through the dark corner to my left. A custom titanium hockey stick shot straight toward my carotid artery.

I dropped backward at a ninety-degree angle and slid across the floor. The sharp edge of the stick blade grazed right past my black glasses, the wind whipping my bangs across my forehead.

Before my attacker could pull back, I planted one hand on the stone, sprang up, and grabbed the carbon-fiber shaft. I yanked the stick toward my chest while my left hand flicked two silver needles straight at his wrist.

In the flickering firelight, I saw the man sitting in a custom heavy-duty wheelchair. Even seated, his broad shoulders and over-six-foot-two frame radiated pure physical power.

Messy black hair fell across his forehead, and his dark eyes locked onto my face. On his right cuff, a custom silver cufflink engraved with a soaring eagle glinted red in the firelight—the secret emblem of the Alliance Syndicate.

With my needles hovering a millimeter above his pulse, the corner of his thin lips curled up. Instead of letting go of the stick, his rough hand shoved forward, closing the gap between us to less than twenty centimeters.

The heat of tobacco and cedarwood cologne washed over me as his deep, gravelly voice rumbled above my head.

"Since when did that idiot Hollis raise a wildcat who knows close-quarters combat?"

I held my ground, keeping the needle tips steady over his skin.

"Mr. Conley Bond, is this your wedding gift for your legal wife on our first meeting?"

Conley let out a cold snort and released the handle. The titanium stick clattered onto the marble floor, his long legs resting still and stiff beneath his black suit pants.

"Just legal trash on paper. You think dressing like a country maid hides the fact that you walked into Kensington with an agenda?"

I slid the needles back into my cuff pouch and stepped back, my gaze dropping to the lifeless muscle lines of his thighs under the blanket.

"I didn't come here to play loving couple for the cameras, and I don't care about the Bond family trust."

I pulled a wooden armchair over, sat down, and crossed my legs.

Conley watched me, his long fingers tapping a steady rhythm against the silver button on his armrest.

"Then show your cards, woman. My patience only lasts for people who can survive the night."

"Let's make a deal, Captain Bond. I'll cure your legs so you can stand up, return to the NHL ice, and lift the Stanley Cup again. In exchange, you give me total protection in Kensington and let me access all the estate's old security files."

The room went dead silent except for a spark popping in the hearth. Conley's tapping fingers froze in midair.

A second later, he threw his head back and laughed, a low, harsh sound full of fury. He leaned forward, the wheelchair tires screeching against the stone as his dark eyes burned into mine.

"You? The top neurosurgery team at Harvard Medical School and the most expensive sports doctors in the league pronounced my motor neurons dead. You're a country substitute bride who never even went to college, and you dare talk nonsense in front of me?"

"They're quacks. Just because they can't cure you doesn't mean I can't."

I pulled a black nano-needle case from my canvas bag and slid it across the coffee table between us.

"Every rainy night, deep inside your quadriceps burns like fire ants are chewing on the bone, while below your ankles feels freezing cold with zero sensation and blocked deep tendon reflexes. Right?"

The mockery on Conley's face vanished. His chest went tight, his hands gripping the edge of the table so hard the veins bulged along his forearms.

"You stole my medical records?"

"I used my eyes. Bone and muscle compensation in top athletes can't fool a professional."

I stood up, walked right in front of his wheelchair, and pulled a three-inch silver needle from the case.

"Let me place one round of needles. Within ten minutes, I'll prove whether I'm qualified to sit at this table and make a deal with you."

Conley stared at the long needle in my hand, his chest rising and falling hard. Red veins crept into the corners of his eyes as the urge to return to the ice warred with his suspicion.

"If there's zero effect after ten minutes, I'll throw you off the third-floor balcony myself and let Hollis collect your corpse."

"Deal."

I flipped back the cashmere blanket covering his knees. Through the thin fabric of his suit pants, I pressed my cool fingertips onto the nerve junction on the outside of his knee.

At my touch, Conley's heavy frame stiffened, his jaw clenching tight without a sound.

I steadied my breath, pinched the silver needle between my index and middle fingers, and drove the tip down half a millimeter into his skin.

Before I could push deeper, frantic high heels and shouting guards echoed from the hallway outside, and the heavy double doors were kicked wide open with a loud crash.