Page 88 of Theirs to Hunt

He doesn’t look up. Just taps the button for my floor.

His floor is already lit.

I step in anyway.

The doors close behind me, and now it’s just us, enclosed in brushed steel and tension thick enough to bite through.

He glances sideways.

“You’re not wearing the heels.”

I shrug.

“My neighbor has a doctor’s appointment. I’m walking her to the car and she’s… delicate.”

There’s a pause.

Then: “You shouldn’t be walking anywhere without security.”

I scoff, trying not to smile.

“You offering to be my bodyguard now?”

“No,” he says, too quiet.

“I’m giving you a car. And security.”

I blink.

“I didn’t ask for that.”

“I know,” he says, eyes forward.

“That’s why it’s not a negotiation.”

The elevator hums under us.

I study his profile, the clean cut of his jaw, the relaxed grip of his hand on the railing, the way his voice never needs to rise to carry weight.

“So we’re going full alpha billionaire today. Got it.”

I make a mental note that being blown at work doesn’t soften his demeanor.

He looks at me then. Calm. Intense.

“You’ve been seen with us publicly more than once. People pay attention to us, and by default now you. Neither of us has ever been seen with the same woman more than once. I want eyes on you. Always.”

I open my mouth, but nothing comes out.

Because the part of me that should protest… doesn’t want to.

Instead, I say, “You think I’m going to get myself in trouble?”

“I think you already are,” he says.

“And I think someone might try to make sure you don’t come out of it. Between your new position and your address, like it or not, there’s a target on your back. Whether it’s from undesirables, social climbers, or someone who thinks they can use you to influence us.”

The elevator slows.