Page 24 of Theirs to Corrupt
With cool, measured calm, Pax closes the distance between us. Then he reaches above me to shut the door before typing into the keypad.
This close, I’m helpless, trapped.
He angles his wrist, showcasing his pricey smart watch. Then he taps a button, says some nonsensical phrase, then adds, “All clear.”
Moments later, the sudden silence almost deafens me.
I’m facing both men.
Link folds his arms across his chest, pulling his white dress shirt taut across his muscles.
Suddenly as frustrated as I am angry, I scowl at both of them. “Are you keeping me prisoner?”
CHAPTER SIX
Tessa
“We prefer that you think of yourself as our guest,” Link responds.
“Guest?”Hysteria bubbles up inside me. What the hell have I gotten myself into? These men, demanding and powerful, have me trapped.
Link’s jaw is clenched, his eyes blazing.
Pax’s expression is calmer, but his jaw is set too.
The way they fill the space of the kitchen, all broad shoulders and raw masculinity, makes me feel small, vulnerable.
Link stands near the kitchen island, his posture tense, while Pax finally steps back, giving me some much-needed space.
“Why don’t you have a seat, Tessa,” Pax says, his voice gentle but firm, letting me know this is an order, not an invitation.
His words jolt me from my spiraling thoughts.
Without their permission, I won’t get far, and I need a minute to regain my composure.
“Let’s talk about this,” he encourages, walking to the coffee maker to dump lots of grounds into the basket.
I take my time, reluctant to move away from my escape route but realizing I have little choice.
My legs are wobbly as I make my way to one of the barstools at the island, and I perch on the edge of the seat.
Moments later, the rich aroma of the much-needed caffeine fills the air.
The normalcy seems surreal.
Then I scoff. There’s nothing normal about sharing a kitchen with a billionaire and his bodyguard who have me locked in the house.
When Pax finally slides a mug in front of me, I trace the gold-colored logo on the front, and I see the name Hawkeye Security. The firm he works for?
My eyes widen when he pulls a carton of hazelnut creamer out of the fridge and places it in front of me. The flavor is my favorite. How does he know?
I shake my head.
He doesn’tknow.He was in my house—without my permission.
“Sugar?” he asks, reaching for a container.
“No. Thank you.” The words come out automatically, more from habit than genuine gratitude. If it were up to me, I’d be miles away, maybe in another city, maybe New Orleans or Miami, trying to lose myself in the crowds.