His to Protect: A Second Chance Billionaire & Virgin Romance

by Vivien Vale

  What can I do? This isn’t a flowers-and-chocolates situation.

  The day is late, and I have a sharp anxiety in my chest. Why haven’t I heard from her?

  I go to call a car and remember that my driver would have knocked off by now. The man deserves to spend some time with his family—and I have a car here for just this occasion, anyway.

  I pull out a handful of keys as I jog down into the parking area.

  I push myself a bit, trying to dislodge the feeling.

  It’s guilt. It’s pain. It’s loss.

  I’m being melodramatic, but fuck me. I hate that I’ve missed out on a day with her.

  My need for her is surprising to me.

  I just want to touch her soft golden hair, her velvet skin. I want to bury my face between her thighs and feel her writhe as my tongue searches out her most secret places. Feel her open up for me so I can devour her.

  I reach my car and fumble with the keys. I honestly don’t understand this anxiety, how hard it’s hitting me.

  But I know where it’s coming from. I know that fucking fear all too well.

  I’ve finally found the woman of my dreams, and now I’m afraid that I’ve fucked up. Lost her. That when I get home, she’ll be gone.

  That there’s no way in hell that a woman like her will be there waiting for workaholic like me.

  I want to call her. Start my apologies now. But as much as she looks like a fucking Barbie doll, unfortunately, she didn’t come pre-packaged with a cell phone.

  And besides, I should have fucking known what I was getting into here. Mail-order bride—not exactly the world’s most touching romance story.

  I bet the second she woke up this morning, she fucked off to find some more exciting game. A guy that could spend two consecutive evenings with her.

  As I get in the car, I sit still and breathe deeply.

  It doesn’t help. I’m overcome by the idea that I might have pushed her too hard.

  Shouldn’t have fucked her. My cock is a monster. I might have hurt her.

  Suddenly, that’s the prevailing narrative in my mind. She woke up bruised, sorry, and sore, and what did I give her?

  A fuck you. I’m off to work, and I’ll fuck you later. Then she doesn’t hear from me all day and she gets more upset by the second.

  Until she leaves.

  I don’t even know that she’s gone yet, but I’m prepared for the worst.

  My heart is pounding by the time I turn the key. I rev up the engine and screech out of the parking area.

  I’m just hoping that I’m not too late. I have to see her, even if it’s one last time. I need to try and explain, apologize. Even if I’m sorry is the last thing she’ll listen to me say.

  I’ve never been good at positive thinking.

  It’s made me a terrific doctor. If I assume the worst, I can usually stop it before it happens, or at least, fight it. It positions me perfectly to combat trauma and injury. So, it isn’t like I have a lot of nice thoughts crowding in my head right now.

  Maybe that face she pulled was pain, not pleasure. Maybe when I had her bent over and slid it into her too fast, that gasp against the pillow was stop not yes.

  We slept in each other’s arms…she curled up against me with a smile on her face. But it doesn’t mean a damn thing. She’s new to it, to all of it, and I should have known better than to push her so far so fast.

  As I pull out into traffic, I can’t get that image out of my mind. Of Stella waking up, sore and bruised—waiting for me to show her how much I love her and pamper her

  Instead, she gets an empty house and a cold note.

  Did she sit and wait for me to get back, or did she wake up happy I wasn’t there? Empty houses are all the easier to leave, after all. Maybe she just left and never even waited around for me at all.

  Maybe it’s better that way. I’m the doctor, after all. Minimizing pain is my specialty.

  I finally pull out of the traffic and get on to the main road. I’m certain I’m never going to see her again.

  Whether she’s there or not when I get back…something’s fucking wrong. I can feel it in my chest.

  Remembering how good it is to drive my own car, I slam my foot down and take out my frustration on the car as I handle the speed and the turns.

  And in the back of my mind, I fucking pray. I pray that I’ll drive fast enough, and I pray that I’m not too late.

  16

  Stella

  This is seriously bullshit.

  It’s full on night time, and I’ve still had no word at all from Michael.

  He doesn’t call, he doesn’t write…

  Something like that.

  I groan and settle further back into the cushy seat of his home theater. On the screen in front of me, a grinning blonde turns to find that the love of her life has followed her to the airport, desperate to make her stay.

  “BOO!” I yell, half-tempted to throw something.

  Apparently, it’s true what they say: real life isn’t like the movies.

  In real life, you can be kidnapped, mailed to a doctor with the world’s biggest dick, and still end up sitting alone watching chick flicks.

  What’s even the point of being here if I’m alone?

  I know that I don’t know a whole lot about this mail-order bride thing, but I really thought it’d be more fun than this.

  If the man who bought you can’t even be bothered to show up, what’s it all for?

  After the past few days, I definitely had a different evening planned. For example, I planned on having Michael’s cock in my mouth right about now.

  Instead, I’m watching two crappy actors make out.

  It’s not even sexy.

  Speaking of things that aren’t sexy, I’m also really over this whole creepy vibe. I really tried to talk some sense into myself, to get the hell over it, but I’m still feeling unsettled.

  No, the door hasn’t magically opened again or anything like that. I just have this feeling. It’s like, every few minutes the hairs on the back of my neck stand up.

  Maybe it’s my body overreacting to nightmares and loneliness…or maybe my body knows something that I don’t.

  I feel watched.

  Hunted.

  No matter how many times I tell myself I’m just being crazy, it won’t go away.

  In fact, it’s getting worse.

  I keep glancing over my shoulder, half-convinced I’ll find a monster there. Some big hungry beastie waiting to gobble me up—and not in a good way.

  When I look, though, it’s just more nothing.

  I’m definitely alone. All alone.

  Which brings me back to the actual problem.

  Where the hell is he?

  In my head, I alternate between worry and anger.

  One second, I’m picturing him dead in a ditch, and the next I’m trying to decide what bitchy thing I’ll say to him when he finally shows up.

  Things like, “Where the hell have you been?”

  Or, a classic like, “Do you know what time it is, Mister?”

  Maybe I’ll skip anger and go straight to, “Take your fucking pants off!”

  So many choices…

  I’m still wading through these thoughts when I feel eyes on me again. The chill that follows is even worse than before. A sensation like someone rubbing ice up the length of my spine.

  I risk another glance over my shoulder…still nothing.

  I think I might actually be losing it.

  On the TV, the credits are rolling, some upbeat song blasting through the speakers. I certainly don’t feel upbeat. In fact, the music only makes me feel more on edge.

  It’s like in scary movies when they play children’s songs or old-timey hits. The kind of music that makes you picture some nasty murder montage.

  I change the channel.

  My stomach is growling.

  It occurs to me that I haven’t eaten much today. Likely because I was expecting Michael to show up at some point and make
us dinner.

  I mean really, what’s the point of being ordered by a sexy billionaire if he doesn’t even cook for you?

  At this point, I’d even eat the vegetables.

  I sit for a minute longer, stuck between my hunger and stubbornness.

  After the day I’ve had, he should have to cook.

  “GRRR!” goes my stomach, trying to sway me to its side.

  I’ll admit, it’s a pretty convincing argument.

  I cave.

  With a final huff of irritation, I pick up the remote, hitting the power button and returning the screen to darkness.

  It’s right about then that I become convinced I’ve lost my mind.

  In the reflection on the TV, it almost looks like someone is standing behind me. Which is obviously insane, because I’m alone here. Totally completely alone.

  My heart doesn’t seem to have gotten the memo though, as it rockets away inside my chest.

  THUMP. THUMP. THUMP.

  My heart’s beating so hard, I’m sure that if I look down, I’ll see that’s it’s popped right out of my body, shirt stretched to accommodate it, like in Loony Tunes.

  Speaking of Loony Tunes, that reminds me. I’m nuts.

  I don’t know how long I sit there, frozen, eyes locked on the TV.

  I’m certain I must be hallucinating. That there’s no one behind me and that he’s certainly not holding something that looks like a knife.

  I’ve gotten myself half-convinced when he moves.

  A scream tears its way out of me, shrill and fearful.

  The remote falls from my hand to clatter loudly against the wooden floors as I stand, spinning wildly around.

  “Hello, baby,” he says with a thick Russian accent, shark-like grin splitting his face. “Miss me?”

  I can’t breathe.

  I can’t move.

  Standing in front of me is someone I was sure I’d never see again.

  “You don’t look happy to see me,” he says, his accent even thicker than I remembered. “And here I thought you’d be so glad.”

  “Wha—what are you doing here?” I ask. My voice sounds strange to my own ears.

  “Why, I’ve come to rescue you!” he says, his eyes shining maliciously as he says it.

  I don’t spend long looking at his eyes, though. My gaze is almost immediately drawn to his right hand. Or, more specifically, the butcher knife that it’s wielding.

  He seems to notice.

  “Oh, this? This is just in case of problems...” He tilts his head, grinning even more broadly. “But we aren’t going to have problems, are we?”

  I can only manage to shake my head no.

  I liked him better when he was pretending to be a sexy doctor.

  Sexy doctors are my type, haven’t you heard?

  Russians with knives…not my kink.

  Not that it matters.

  “Good,” he growls, “now come here.”

  17

  Michael

  Stella!” I call, rushing inside. “Stella?”

  I’m hoping. God, I can’t help myself.

  I’m hoping that she’ll just raise that gorgeous face up from the back of the couch and say, Hey, sweetie. What took you so long?

  But the apartment is silent and cold.

  She’s gone.

  I grip the kitchen counter for a second, feeling the pain in my knuckles. I’ve never felt like this before. I used to laugh at men in power who got emotional under pressure. Now here I am—an absolute fucking wreck.

  I knew something was wrong the moment I got out of surgery.

  And now here it is. Black fucking cloud hanging over my entire fucking house.

  In a blind rage, I clench my fists and lash out. Some hand-carved wooden fertility statues from Africa go flying as my fist connects with the wall.

  Scratch that.

  It goes through the wall.

  My knuckles are bleeding. My swing grazed the bookshelf, and now I’ve got shards of wood in my hand.

  “Shit,” I mutter, knowing this won’t make surgery fun tomorrow. What a goddamn stupid thing to do! I’ve never lost it like this before…but Stella.

  Stella’s the kind of woman worth losing it over.

  And now I’ve lost her.

  I move over to the sink, gritting my teeth as I pick the splinters out of my knuckles.

  Perfect control. Cold as ice fucking doctor. Wincing at the sink with a wrecked hand and an empty bed.

  I have to admit it to myself: I’ve never loved anyone before. Not like this. Not ever.

  Not like she’s the air I breathe and the only comfort I know in this world.

  I shake off the sentimental shit and run my knuckles beneath cold water from the tap.

  That’s the great thing about training—it kicks in when you can’t think for yourself. Some of these splinters are pretty big. Might need stitches.

  I know how to stitch myself up, at least.

  As my hand is soaking, I carefully pull out the splinters. They’re thick, and some over an inch long—I really pulverized that fucking shelf.

  Still, even though these wounds aren’t serious, I may have a few micro-fractures. Even if it is just superficial damage, if any of this gets infected, I’ll be out of surgery for a while.

  I’d have plenty of time for Stella then.

  If she was still fucking here, anyway.

  I look up to the ceiling and feel that horrid bunch in my stomach again. Just one more reason why I’m not good enough for her: no self-control. Can’t keep my dick in my pants, can’t keep control of my goddamn fists.

  Should have married her first. Bought her as a bride—should have made her one, too.

  I dry my hand off with paper towels, looking for a bandage. My mind keeps working methodically and carefully as it always does, solving the problem.

  But underneath, I’m seething with self-loathing. I’m getting angrier and angrier—not at Stella, but at myself.

  I should have been there when she woke up this morning. Why did I think the perfect woman, the only one who could meet my standards, should sit around like a pretty doll on a shelf?

  I should have woken her, taken her with me. I could set her up in a nice café or something to wait for me, sent her to an art museum or given her my black card. Anything instead of just ditching her like a one-night stand.

  I’m steadily applying bandages. It hurts, I guess, but at least the entire hand isn’t fucked.

  But what does it matter? I’m fucked, my heart is fucked, everything is fucked.

  My hand feels kind of irrelevant by comparison.

  I have a nip of scotch and take it over to the couch where I collapse for a moment, staring at the ceiling.

  I want to go after her. I want to get her back. I want to track her down, wherever she’s gone.

  I want to spend every last moment hunting for her just to see her one last time.

  But for the first time in my life I am self-aware. I know doing that would be for me, not for her benefit.

  This is the moment I decide I’m a changed man.

  I’m not going to chase down this gorgeous angel and tear her life apart, trying to make her love me. I shouldn’t have bought her in the first place. I shouldn’t have expected her to stay.

  No. She deserves to be free, to be spoiled every second of her life. She deserves someone who will be there and who will cherish her the way she deserves.

  She did the right thing. She left. Now I have to do the right thing and let her go.

  I bow my head, and I finish my drink.

  But then, as I stand up I catch a scent. Iron. Tangy. Like the ER on a bad night.

  Blood.

  Not mine. I’m all cleaned up, the rags all thrown away. Force of habit. So where can it be coming from?

  Feeling a hard anger starting to build inside me, I head down the hall.

  Fuck. There!

  A dark smear. It’s not a lot of blood, but it’s there: a dark smear across the wall and
floor.

  Someone got hurt here.

  My Stella got hurt here.

  I inhale again.

  No. On second thought…doesn’t smell like her.

  I don’t know who else was here in my house…but that’s not Stella’s blood.

  My mind’s racing to try and piece it all together, but if there’s one conclusion I’m comfortable to come to…

  It’s the one that will give me a little hope.

  She didn’t go. She didn’t leave me.

  She was taken.

  Kidnapped. Fucking kidnapped again.

  Stella does seem to have a penchant for that. But this time…I look at the dark stain again. This time, she made the fucker bleed for his efforts.

  The rage within me is like an animal. My mind isn’t clouded. I’m totally clear.

  I snap out my phone as I bolt for the door. It’s time to call in every favor I have coming to me. Once I do, I’m going to find this motherfucker, and I’m going to destroy him.

  Then, I’m going to get my girl back.

  18

  Stella

  I sit in the front seat, curled up as far away from this fucking psycho as I can get. He’s tied my hands with some nasty nylon cord, and the duct tape across the face really hurts.

  You wouldn’t think it would hurt, would you? Everyone on TV does the duct tape thing so regularly. I never imagined it was so fucking painful…but it totally is.

  Russian psycho looks over at me constantly. When he slows down for an intersection or something he leers over at me, grazing his eyes across my body.

  I’m really fucking scared now, but that doesn’t stop me from wanting to take the cunt apart. I made him bleed once, I can do it again.

  I wonder if I can get my legs up and kick at him.

  The car is small, hot, and fast. If I wasn’t bound and gagged, I’d probably be impressed. He handles it well too, speeding through the streets.

  “Well then, krasivoya,” he whispers, “I have feasted upon you with my eyes. Now, I want to hear the pretty bird speak.”

  He leans over and tugs the duct tape off my mouth.

  Fuck me, that hurts! My eyes tear up as he leans back and gives me an expectant look. I’m so stunned by his idiocy, I can only stare back for all of two seconds before I verbally blast the motherfucker.