My Accidental Billionaire Husband (Katia and Julian) novel Chapter 257

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Who is Reeping Your Bed Warm?

-Katia-

My body was a map of aches.

I woke up slowly, the cold morning light cutting through the heavy drapes of my bedroom to cast long, Jae gray shading- across the floor. As I tried to sit up, a sharp, direct wave of soreness radiated from may hips down through my thighs. The skin on my waist carried the dark, deep-purple prints of Julian’s fingers from three in the morning, a physical retinder of the relentless, unyielding way he had claimed me. My throat was dry, the taste of our collision still heavy in my mouth.

I pulled a silk robe over my shoulders, tying the belt tight around my waist, trying to rebuild the corporate armor that puttan had systematically stripped away.

Below, on the street, the distant hun of the media circus was a continuous, parasitic buzz. The paparazzi had been stationed at the lobby gates since Jude Wolfe’s broadcast, their lenses pointed toward my penthouse like a firing, squad. I walked into the kitchen, my hands trembling slightly as I poured a glass of water, trying to find some thread of control in a life that was spinning rapidly out of its orbit.

A sharp, metallic clack echoed from the foyer.

I froze, the glass halfway to my lips. The security gate to my private elevator bay had just been bypassed. It wasn’t the familiar code that Julian used–the loud, dominant stride of a man who owned the space he walked into. This was different. The lift doors slid open with a soft hiss, followed by the slow, measured clicking of expensive dress shoes against the hardwood.

I stepped out of the kitchen, my chest tightening with a sudden, icy dread.

Standing in the foyer, calmly sliding a pair of leather gloves off his fingers, was Jude Wolfe.

He didn’t look like a man who had just bypassed high-level security! He looked like an executive arriving for a private board meeting. His dark suit was immaculate, his coat tailored to his broad, athletic shoulders, his face a mask of calm, cold British sophistication. But beneath the polished exterior, there was a heavy, suffocating pressure radiating off his body-the quiet, dangerous bearing of a predator that had walked into a trap and decided to make it his home.

“You have very poor security, Katia,” Jude said, his low accent carrying that unhurried weight. He tossed his gloves onto the marble console table, his dark eyes locking onto mine with a chilling, unblinkable focus. “A simple media distraction at the lobby entrance, a cloned service keycard, and your entire fortress falls apart.”

“Get out of my house, Jude,” I said, my voice dropping to a low, warning register as I stepped back, my hand reaching toward the counter where my phone was sitting.

Before my fingers could even touch the glass, Jude moved.

He was fast, terrifyingly fast for a man of his size. He crossed the living room in two long strides, his hand reaching out to clamp around my wrist with a sudden, violent tightness. His fingers didn’t just grip; they dug deep into my skin, the bone-crushing pressure making me gasp as he yanked my hand away from the phone.

He pulled me forward until my chest slammed against his chest, the scent of his cologne hitting my senses like a physical blow.

“I didn’t fly across the Atlantic to be dismissed by my wife,” Jude whispered, his voice smooth, steady, and entirely empty of warmth.

“I am not your wife,” I hissed, struggling against the iron grip on my wrist, but the physical leverage he had over me was strong.

Jude let out a short, quiet laugh-a dry, mocking sound that carried the full, abusive weight of his intent. He didn’t release my wrist. Instead, his other hand rose, his fingers rough and cold as they hooked under my chin, forcing my head up. His thumb dragged slowly across my bottom lip, pushing so hard against my teeth that I tasted the sudden, sharp copper of blood.

His eyes drifted down my neck, tracking the low collar of my silk robe.

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Ahift

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