Chapter 11
The heavy steel door of the underground bunker didn't just open. It was violently obliterated.
A directional breaching charge detonated with a deafening, chest-caving boom. The massive metal slab was ripped from its reinforced hinges, flying through the air before slamming brutally into the concrete floor right next to the surgical table.
A thick cloud of gray concrete dust and pulverized drywall instantly choked the room.
Mortimer Graves let out a pathetic, high-pitched shriek. His entire body violently flinched. The glass syringe slipped from his sweaty fingers, shattering against the floor. The glowing blue liquid pooled into the thick layer of dust.
Through the stinging smoke, a tall, broad-shouldered silhouette stepped over the mangled steel door.
Arthur Michael walked into the harsh surgical light.
His expensive dark suit was coated in a fine layer of gray ash. His jaw was locked so tight the muscle ticked visibly beneath his skin. He looked like the grim reaper dragged straight out of hell.
Elsie stared up at the familiar, sharp angles of his face through the blinding glare of the surgical lamp.
The suffocating terror that had paralyzed her lungs instantly shattered. A raw, broken sob tore from her throat. Hot tears spilled over her lashes, tracking through the dust on her cheeks.
From the dark corner of the room, Mortimer's hired muscle, Ricky, scrambled to his feet. He pulled a silenced pistol from his waistband, his hands shaking as he aimed it directly at Arthur's chest.
Arthur didn't even blink. He didn't break his gaze from Elsie.
A deafening crack echoed from the hallway behind Arthur.
Lee Weston stood in the doorway, his weapon drawn. The bullet cleanly shattered Ricky's right wrist.
Ricky screamed, a wet, agonizing sound. The pistol clattered to the floor. He dropped to his knees, clutching his bleeding arm.
But the adrenaline and panic made Ricky reckless. With his left hand, he blindly grabbed a razor-sharp scalpel from the stainless steel medical tray. He lunged toward the surgical table, desperate to use Elsie as a human shield.
In his frantic rush, Ricky's heavy combat boot slammed down directly onto Elsie's right hand.
The bones in her hand ground against the metal table. Elsie let out a piercing, agonizing scream.
The sound of her pain hit Arthur like a physical blow.
The cold, calculated control in Arthur's dark eyes instantly vanished, swallowed entirely by a bloodthirsty, scarlet rage.
He moved with terrifying, explosive speed.
Before Ricky could even bring the scalpel to Elsie's throat, Arthur's heavy leather shoe connected squarely with Ricky's chest.
The sickening crunch of multiple ribs snapping echoed through the room. Ricky's massive body was launched backward like a broken ragdoll, slamming into the concrete wall with bone-jarring force.
Arthur didn't stop. He pulled the sleek Browning pistol from his shoulder holster.
He aimed down. Two deafening shots rang out in rapid succession.
The bullets tore through Ricky's left kneecap, completely destroying his ability to ever walk again. Ricky collapsed into a puddle of his own blood, passing out from the sheer trauma.
Mortimer's knees gave out. A dark, yellow stain spread across the front of his velvet trousers. He whimpered, crawling backward on his hands and knees through the dust, desperate to reach the dark hallway.
Arthur ignored the pathetic worm on the floor. He dropped the Browning.
He stepped up to the metal table. His large, powerful hands were visibly shaking as he reached for the thick leather straps digging into Elsie's wrists.
He unbuckled the heavy leather. The second her arms were free, Elsie lunged upward.
She stared at him, the sharp, grim angles of his face serving as the only anchor capable of shattering her terror. Her body's instinct screamed at her to recoil from any male presence, the phantom weight of the hotel mattress still haunting her nerves. But the raw, desperate will to survive overrode the panic. He was her only floating debris in a suffocating ocean. She threw her entire body against his solid chest, her uninjured left hand grabbing fistfuls of his ash-covered shirt. The coarse fabric grounded her. She buried her face into his neck, her body convulsing with violent, uncontrollable tremors.
Arthur immediately stripped off his suit jacket. He wrapped the heavy fabric tightly around her exposed, shivering shoulders, completely shielding her from the cold room.
His large palm cupped the back of her head, pressing her securely against his racing heart.
He lowered his head, pressing his lips firmly against her sweat-drenched forehead.
"I'm here," Arthur whispered, his voice a raw, gravelly rasp against her skin. "No one will ever hurt you again."
A heavy thud sounded near the doorway. Two heavily armed private security contractors dragged Mortimer back into the room by his ankles. They threw him face-first onto the concrete at Arthur's feet.
Mortimer spat out a mouthful of blood and dust. He looked up, his eyes wide with desperate arrogance.
"You can't do this!" Mortimer shrieked, his voice cracking. "I have the best Wall Street legal team in this city! I'll sue you! I'll destroy your company!"
Arthur's hand moved, firmly pressing Elsie's face into his chest and covering her ear to block out the noise.
He looked down at Mortimer. A cold, demonic smile curved his lips.
"In New York," Arthur said, his voice dropping to a lethal, vibrating octave, "the Michael family is the law."
Arthur slowly turned his head to look at Lee. His eyes were devoid of any human warmth.
"Lee," Arthur commanded, his voice devoid of any human warmth. "Deal with Mortimer. Every finger on the hands that dared to reach for her, shatter them. And the bastard who stepped on her hand-make sure his legs are completely useless."
Lee gave a single, emotionless nod.
The two security contractors immediately hauled Mortimer off the floor. They dragged him to the metal surgical table and slammed both of his hands flat against the cold steel.
Mortimer thrashed, screaming like a slaughtered pig.
One of the contractors calmly pulled a heavy, solid iron hammer from his tactical belt. He raised it high above his head.
He brought it down without a single ounce of hesitation.
Arthur didn't watch. He scooped Elsie up into his arms, holding her tightly against his chest, and turned his back on the gruesome scene.
He carried her out of the blood-soaked bunker, leaving Mortimer's agonizing, wet screams echoing behind them.
The underground hallway was a war zone. Unconscious thugs littered the floor, and the harsh red emergency alarms were still spinning. But Arthur's arms were a fortress of absolute stability.
They reached the underground parking garage. Three black, armored Maybachs sat idling, their engines purring. The rear door of the center vehicle was already wide open.
Arthur carefully placed Elsie onto the plush leather seat and climbed in beside her. He pressed a button, and the thick, soundproof partition instantly rolled up, completely severing them from the chaos outside.
Elsie's right hand was swelling rapidly, the skin turning a terrifying shade of purple and black. She sucked in a sharp breath through her teeth as a spike of pain shot up her arm, but her left hand remained locked in a death grip on Arthur's shirt.
Arthur opened the vehicle's built-in first aid compartment. He pulled out a chemical ice pack, snapping it to activate the cold.
His movements, previously so violent and destructive, were now incredibly slow and gentle. He carefully pressed the ice pack against her swollen knuckles.
Elsie looked up at him. Her face was streaked with dirt and tears.
"You were supposed to be in London," she choked out, her voice trembling. "Why are you here?"
Arthur looked down into her wide, terrified eyes. He didn't tell her about the multi-billion dollar acquisition he had completely abandoned. He didn't mention the furious board members currently calling his encrypted phone.
He gently brushed a stray piece of hair from her cheek.
"Because you are my wife," Arthur said quietly.
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