Alpha's Private Plaything (Elsa and Drake Stone) novel Chapter 202

Chapter 202

Drake

Samuel’s smile widened. “No? We found her wandering the halls, clearly looking for clients. Pretty little thing, obviously experienced.” He gestured to his men. “Perfect for entertaining our special guests.

She’ll make good money tonight.”

I felt Elsa stiffen behind me, her scent souring with fear and humiliation. Her fingers clutched at the back of my shirt, a subconscious gesture seeking protection. Something protective and violent rose in me at her touch. My pulse thundered in my ears, the urge to tear Samuel limb from limb nearly overwhelming.

“The lady,” I said, emphasizing each word through clenched teeth, “is my personal assistant. She’s leaving with me.”

Samuel’s men moved closer, their postures threatening. “Don’t think

so, Stone.

I straightened to my full height, letting a fraction of my Alpha power leak into the air around us. The corridor temperature seemed to drop several degrees. My shoulders squared, chest expanding as I took a

deliberate step forward.

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“She is my assistant,” I repeated, allowing my eyes to flash gold. “She

is mine.” The last word came out as a guttural snarl.

The raw power in my voice made the men step back involuntarily,

their eyes dropping to the floor in submission.

“Your territory or not, Wright, you know exactly who I am.” I took

another step forward, forcing him to retreat. “And you know exactly what I’m capable of if provoked. Push me again, and I’ll rip your

fucking throat out.”

The tension stretched between us like a wire about to snap. Behind me, Elsa pressed closer, her body trembling slightly. I could smell her fear, but also her trust–her instinctive recognition that I would

protect her, no matter our complicated history.

Samuel finally broke, stepping aside with a gesture of mock deference. “Of course, Mr. Stone. My mistake.” His eyes narrowed as

he looked at Elsa again.

One of his men muttered as we passed, “That bitch saw everything we

had done.”

My hand shot out, grabbing the man by his throat and slamming him against the wall. “What did you just say?” I growled, tightening my grip until he choked. The man’s eyes bulged with fear. After a

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moment, I released him, straightening my jacket as he crumpled to

the floor.

I caught Samuel’s final words as we walked away: “Night roads are

dangerous, Mr. Stone. Especially when escorting a fragile little thing

like her.”

The threat hung in the air, obvious and crude. I didn’t dignify it with a response, merely wrapping a possessive arm around Elsa’s waist to steady her as we made our way toward the exit, my body coiled tight

with rage.

Outside, the night air was cool against my face. Elsa swayed

dangerously, the combination of drugs and exhaustion finally taking

their toll. Without hesitation, I shrugged off my coat and wrapped it

around her shoulders before lifting her into my arms.

She was lighter than she should be–had she been eating properly?

The thought irritated me. She wasn’t taking care of herself. How was

she supposed to function as my assistant if she was wasting away?

“I can walk,” she protested weakly, even as her head lolled against my

shoulder.

“Clearly,” I said dryly, carrying her toward my car with long,

purposeful strides. “You can barely stand, let alone walk. Stop being

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so damn stubborn for once.”

She mumbled something incoherent, her fingers curling into my

shirt. I glanced down to see she’d managed to rip off one of my shirt

buttons in her clumsy attempt to hold on.

“That’s a twenty–eight thousand dollar custom suit you’ve just

damaged,” I informed her, oddly amused by her destructiveness. “I’ll

be adding it to your tab.”

She didn’t respond. Her breathing had evened out, her body going

limp in my arms.

I settled her in the passenger seat of my car, taking care not to wake

her. My coat engulfed her small frame, her face partially hidden in its

collar. She looked vulnerable. Innocent, almost–though I knew

better.

As I drove through the quiet streets, I found myself repeatedly

glancing at her sleeping form. She’d curled up against the door, her

face peaceful for once, without the defiance or resentment she

usually wore around me.

I carried Elsa’s limp form through the hotel lobby, ignoring the

curious glances from the night staff. She’d fallen into a deep sleep

during the drive, her head lolling against the window, golden hair

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spilling across her face.

The desk clerk started to speak as I approached the elevators, but one

look from me silenced him. I shifted Elsa in my arms, her warmth

seeping through my shirt.

In the suite, I kicked the door shut behind me with unnecessary force, laying her on the bathroom floor, propping her against the wall while I started the shower. Her dress was ruined–stained with alcohol,

sweat, and the unmistakable scent of our earlier activities in that

storage closet.

I peeled the dress from her body, tossing it into the trash with a disgusted snort. Her skin was feverish under my touch. My fingers traced them briefly before I caught myself, jaw tightening.

Sentimentality was weakness. Fuck that.

The water warmed, and I lifted her into the shower, still in my suit pants and shirt. The spray soaked us both as I held her upright, methodically washing away the bar’s filth from her skin and hair. My hands moved with clinical precision, though every instinct screamed to reclaim what was mine. Her head rested against my chest, occasional mumbles escaping her lips.

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