Page 2 of The Final Contract (The Black Ledger Billionaires #5)

B lood.

It’s everywhere.

Across my hands. Smearing her dress. Glazing her arms up to the elbows.

“Where are you hurt?” I growl, dragging her against me as my fingers search frantically. Neck. Ribs. Waist. I don’t care if I have to rip every inch of this fucking gown apart to find it.

Her protests are noise. I don’t hear them. I only see red.

My Irish brogue thickens the way it always does when I’m at my limit—pissed or drunk or buried deep in a beautiful woman.

But that’s not what this is. This is panic clawing at the edges of me.

“Tell me who the fuck did this, Seraphina. Now.”

She shoves at me, twisting, and when I don’t stop—when I pull my knife and get a fistful of satin—her palm cracks against my cheek.

“Killian Shaw!”

The sound rings sharper than the strike itself. It barely stings, but it halts me. Shocks me enough that my grip loosens.

Her chest is heaving, eyes blazing through the mask still clinging to her face until she rips it off and flings it across the limo. “I’m not hurt, you giant bulldozer.”

For a beat, the limo hums with nothing but Felix’s steady driving and her ragged breaths. Mine are worse.

I put my knife away, drag my hand through my hair, and look at her properly. No pain in her face. No tremor in her voice. Just fire in those blue eyes.

I clamp my hands around her wrists—not soft, not cruel, but firm enough to still her. Her skin is sticky—red smeared against pale.

“Then explain this,” I snap, holding her hands up between us. The bloodstains look like evidence. Proof of something I can’t yet name.

Because if she’s not bleeding… then whose blood is this?

“It’s just paint, big man.” She fights with the endless amount of fabric, settling herself further into the black leather seat. “It’s not a big deal.”

“Paint?” I grind the word out like it’s poison. “You expect me to believe this is nothing?”

She twists, trying to push me back with that cool facade she wears when she wants the world to think she’s untouchable—calm, collected. But I’ve spent a year with her. Almost every fucking day.

I’ve spent too many hours with her—watched every twitch of her mouth, every tightening of her shoulders. I know when she’s telling the truth. And I know when she’s lying through her teeth.

She’s doing it now.

“Stop actin’ like I don’t know ya,” I snarl.

My brogue cuts sharper than I want it to, but I don’t reel it back.

“I’ve been at your side for a year, Seraphina.

I’ve seen you terrified, I’ve seen you broken, and I’ve seen you fight your way back from hell.

And this—” I hold up her dripping hands, “—isn’t nothing. ”

Her eyes flash, chin tipping up. Defiance. It’s always defiance with her.

And Christ, it stirs every demon in me.

Lucian and I flew halfway across the world to drag her out of the deranged clutches of a madman.

That bastard’s gone now—ashes in the ground. But I remember the night too clearly. Some wannabe king’s little brother knee-deep in drugs, drowning in debt. And not just any debt. Debt with the Irish.

And an Irish debt is a life debt. No questions. No mercy.

As soon as I heard my old family was involved, I knew what it meant. They wouldn’t hesitate to shoot her down on their way to their target.

Collateral damage, they’d have called her.

And I would know better than anyone.

I’ve kept her close ever since. Because I don’t trust the world not to take another bite out of her.

So no, I don’t believe her calm little act. I don’t believe in coincidence. And I sure as hell don’t believe roses dripping red into her hands are just fucking paint.

The fight doesn’t stop when Felix pulls up to her building. It climbs with us in the elevator, follows into her kitchen, spilling over marble countertops and the wreckage of that ruined gown.

The kitchen lights are too bright after the chaos of the ballroom. I strip off my jacket and toss it over the back of a chair, then roll my sleeves to the elbow. The sink hisses as I scrub the red off my hands, water running pink down the drain. Paint, she says. I’m not convinced.

Behind me, the fridge opens. She pulls out a bottle of water, panting faintly as she twists the cap. From the fight? From the panic? From me? I don’t ask.

“You want to tell me the truth now?” I say without turning.

Her silence stretches, then breaks. “I have a stalker.”

I freeze, hands braced on the stainless steel. Slowly, I shut off the tap and turn.

“Do you remember?” she asks, voice softer now. “Years ago. When Lucian tried to find him.”

I remember. How could I not? Back then, I thought it was handled. Dealt with.

“Five years,” I murmur, the pieces slotting into place. “Five fucking years you’ve been looking over your shoulder?”

She shrugs, sipping her water like we’re discussing the weather. “It stopped for a while. He was mostly quiet for a bit. I thought he had moved on and it was not worth making a fuss.”

Not worth making a fuss? A fucking stalker?

She walks away like that settles it. Like we’re finished.

We’re not.

Not even fucking close.

I follow her down the hall—every step of her penthouse already memorized. I know where the floor creaks, which door sticks, how the curtains leak light in the mornings. There’s not an inch of this place I don’t know.

In her bedroom, she sets the bottle aside and unclasps her earrings, placing them neatly on a tray. “You don’t need to get worked up, Killian. It’s nothing.”

“It’s not nothing,” I snap, trailing after her.

She disappears into the bathroom. I go too.

She sets her necklace down with careful hands, avoiding my eyes in the mirror.

“Quiet?” I repeat, bracketing her against the counter with both palms flat on the marble. My reflection looms behind hers. “That’s your excuse? Quiet?”

Her jaw tightens, but she doesn’t pull away. “He’s left a flower here and there. Three times this year. That’s it. I got rid of them before you could see.”

The words hit like a gut punch. “You’ve been covering for him.”

“I’ve been handling it.”

“No.” My voice drops lower, heavier. “You’ve been living with it. There’s a difference.”

She finally looks at me—steady, stubborn.

I have to force myself not to stare at her mouth, at the pale-pink gloss catching the light, making me wonder how soft she tastes. To keep my eyes on hers, away from the corset that shoves her tits together, the way they bounce just so when she walks—like they’re begging for my hands.

I push the anger forward so it’s all I can feel.

Anger—at her for hiding it, at Lucian for not crushing this bastard years ago, at myself for standing at her side blind while she pretended it had gone away.

Never again.

I lean in, crowding her back against the counter. “This ends now. You hear me? Not another flower. Not another text. Not another ghost at your shoulder that you hide from me.”

The bathroom goes still. My voice is low, steady, meant only for her ears. And despite the fight still simmering in her, I catch something else in her stare—something dangerous.

Because I’m here to guard her. Not to fuck her.

“You hear me?” I press, my mouth just inches from hers.

She nods once. Silent. Then her tongue flicks across her bottom lip, and it nearly fucking kills me. Thank God for the way I’m standing—hiding the hard-on straining against my trousers.

Her eyes shift, sliding past mine to the mirror. She turns slightly, hands braced on the counter beside mine, gaze locking with mine in the glass.

Christ.

This position. The swell of her breasts spilling from the corset, the faint looseness in the bodice where the dress is fighting to keep up. Her blonde hair, pinned high, a few strands falling to brush her neck, trailing over her bare shoulder like temptation itself.

I could press into her now. Let her feel what she does to me. Tear this goddamn dress off her and take what I’ve wanted for months—years, if I’m being honest.

Instead, she whispers, “Help me out of my dress?”

Quiet, but loaded.

Her brow arches, the smallest twitch, and I know she’s aware of every thought in my head.

My jaw tenses as I force myself upright, but I step closer all the same. “Just pull the string out,” she instructs.

My fingers—too big, too rough—find the delicate satin laced tight down her spine. I tug one loop free, then the next, unraveling the crisscross pattern inch by inch.

She never takes her eyes off me. I look down only when I need to. Like this is some silent standoff. Like she can use this to make me drop this whole stalker revelation.

Not a fucking chance, angel.

Near the top, the fabric slackens, and she holds it to her chest, modest in gesture but not in effect.

The string finally gone, I retreat a step. But she isn’t finished with me.

“There’s a zipper too.”

Her voice is lighter now, almost casual. But when she glances back over her shoulder, her eyes catch mine, and I know she’s baiting me.

I reach again, fingers brushing the warm line of her skin as I find the zipper. Goosebumps ripple under my touch, her body betraying her even if her face doesn’t.

I could lean down, kiss that spot. Warm her with my mouth, taste the heat of her pulse.

But I don’t.

Because I can’t. Because the one rule—my cardinal rule—is never—fuck the woman you’re meant to protect.

And then the zipper drops.

The dress loosens. Fabric slides. And what greets me steals the air from my lungs.

A pale-pink thong, nothing more. A tiny bow at the waistband like it’s a gift waiting for me to unwrap.

I want to slide my hand beneath it. Feel her wet and ready for me. Drop to my knees and taste what I’ve only imagined.

But I don’t.

I take one step back. Then another.

She turns, eyes tracking me, sharp as blades and soft as sin all at once.

A third step. A fourth. Until I’m clear of the bathroom, standing in her bedroom doorway.

“I’ll be out here if you need anything,” I say.

My voice is steady, controlled.

Even if I know one day she’ll be the death of my control.