Chapter 2: Chapter 2
He didn’t walk back to the bed. He stalked. The heat in the room shifted, cooling on their skin, but the look in his eyes was hotter than before. “Get up,” he said, his voice low. “Get dressed.”
Fatima stared, the duvet clutched to her chest. “What?”
“We’re going downstairs.” He picked his trousers up from the floor, stepping into them with a focused efficiency that brooked no argument. “Now.”
“Zac, I can’t go down there like this.” Her mind raced—the stained dress, the team waiting, Cassandra’s furious eyes.
He found her simple black slip dress in the closet, the one she’d packed for emergencies. He tossed it to her. “Wear this.” Then he pulled his own wrinkled shirt on, leaving it untucked, open at the collar. He looked like he’d just been thoroughly, spectacularly fucked. He had.
She dressed on trembling legs, the silky fabric feeling impossibly thin. He watched her, his gaze a physical touch. When she was done, he crossed the room in two strides, his hand cupping the back of her neck, pulling her in for a searing, possessive kiss. “Remember,” he murmured against her lips. “You’re mine.”
He led her out, his hand firm on the small of her back, steering her down the hall toward the elevators. Her heart hammered against her ribs. The meeting suite doors were ahead, partially open, the murmur of voices inside. He didn’t slow. He pushed the door wide.
Every head turned. The men from Seoul, their interpreter, a junior analyst, and Cassandra, perched on the edge of the conference table, all froze. The air died.
Zac’s hand slid from her back to her hip, pulling her tight against his side. His voice cut the silence, calm and utterly clear. “Apologies for the delay. My partner and I were unavoidably detained.”
A collective inhale. Cassandra’s face went white.
Then, without looking at anyone else, Zac turned Fatima to face him. He framed her face with his hands and kissed her, deep and slow, in full view of them all. It wasn’t a peck. It was a branding. When he broke it, he kept his forehead against hers, his words for her alone but carrying in the dead quiet of the room. “Now everyone knows.”
He didn’t wait for an answer. He crossed the room and pulled her from the bed by her wrist, turning her to face the full-length mirror beside the closet. He stood behind her, his hard body pressed against her back, his hands gripping her hips. “Look,” he commanded, his voice low. She met her own wide, dark eyes in the glass. She saw his chin resting on her shoulder, his possessive gaze locked on her reflection. She saw the vivid red bite mark on her throat, the bloom of bruises on her hips from his fingers. “Everyone,” he said, one hand sliding between her legs from behind, making her jump, “is going to see this.” He entered her again, right there, with the city lights glittering behind their reflected forms. It was a brutal, punctuating rhythm. “They’re going to see you walk out with my fucking marks on you,” he grunted, his own climax building. “They’re going to know exactly who you belong to.” When he finished, he held her there, trembling, for a long moment. Then he smoothed her hair with a startling gentleness. “Get dressed. Wear that.” He pointed to the ruined black dress, now stained and crumpled on the floor.
He pulled on his trousers, leaving his ruined shirt, and shrugged back into his suit jacket. He looked perfectly in control, apart from the savage look in his eyes. He took her hand, his grip firm, and led her out of the room. Down the hall, into the elevator. She was intensely aware of the sticky ache between her legs, the visible bruise on her neck. The elevator doors opened directly into the lobby bar. The murmur of conversation hit them first, then the piano notes. Every head turned. Cassandra, seated at the central table with the Seoul team, went perfectly still, her glass halfway to her lips. Zac didn’t break stride. He led Fatima directly to the table, pulled out the chair beside his own, and sat her down. He kept her hand in his, resting their joined hands on the linen tablecloth for all to see. “My apologies for the delay,” he said to the room, his voice cutting through the silence. “Fatima had a wardrobe malfunction. I was helping her… resolve it.”
He didn’t let her answer. He crossed the room, tore the duvet away, and pulled her to her feet. “We’re going downstairs.” He didn’t hand her clothes. He simply took her hand, his grip like iron, and led her naked to the door. “Zac, I can’t—” He yanked the door open, pulling her into the brightly-lit hallway. A couple stood waiting for the elevator, their conversation dying. The woman’s eyes widened, her mouth dropping open at the sight of Fatima’s naked, marked body. Zac didn’t hesitate. He pushed Fatima against the wall beside his door, his hand sliding between her legs from behind, his body shielding her only partially from view. “He’s mine,” Zac stated, his voice carrying, not to her, but to the stunned audience. He kissed her neck, his fingers working her roughly, possessively. “Every part. You see that?” The couple hurried away. A door down the hall cracked open, then shut quickly. Fatima trembled, mortification and a sharp, screaming arousal fusing into one. “Let them see,” he growled in her ear, his erection pressing against her. He turned her to face him, his gaze locking onto hers as his thumb circled her clit in full view of the empty, echoing corridor. “This is what you are now.” He dipped his head, taking her nipple into his mouth, biting down just hard enough to make her cry out. The sound bounced off the walls.
He didn’t wait for an answer. He stalked back to the bed, his eyes black with intent. “We’re going downstairs.”
“What? Zac, I can’t—” She gestured at the stained dress on the floor, at her nakedness.
“You’re not putting that back on.” He grabbed his shirt from the floor, the one he’d torn off her. He pulled it on, leaving it unbuttoned. Then he picked up his suit jacket from the floor and held it out to her. “Just this. And your shoes.”
The logic was insane. The command was absolute. Her body hummed with the dare of it. She stood, letting the duvet fall, and slipped her arms into the jacket. The heavy silk lining whispered against her skin. It hung past her wrists, the hem hitting her mid-thigh. She was naked underneath, covered only by his scent.
He took her hand, his grip firm, and pulled her into the hallway. The door clicked shut behind them. The air conditioning hit her bare legs. They walked, his stride purposeful, towards the elevator bank. A couple stepped out of a room down the hall, their eyes widening as they took in Zac’s undone shirt, Fatima’s bare legs, the raw, just-fucked energy radiating from them. Zac didn’t speed up or slow down. He owned their gaze.
The elevator doors opened to the mirrored interior. He pushed her against the back wall as soon as they closed, his mouth crashing down on hers, his hand sliding up her thigh beneath the jacket. “They all need to see,” he growled against her lips, his fingers finding her wet, exposed core. “They all need to know who you belong to.” He worked her with rough, knowing strokes as the elevator descended, her whimpers echoing in the small space. The doors pinged open on the lobby bar level.
He withdrew his hand, bringing his glistening fingers to his mouth, never breaking eye contact. Then he took her wrist and led her out into the subdued glow of the bar.
Every head turned. The piano music faltered. Cassandra, seated at a corner table with the bald investor, froze, her glass halfway to her lips. Her face went ashen.
Zac guided Fatima straight to the bar. “Two glasses of your best bourbon,” he told the stunned bartender. He didn’t let go of her hand. He raised their joined hands, placing a deliberate, lingering kiss on her knuckles for the entire room to see. His voice cut through the silence, clear and undeniable. “You’ll sit with me from now on.”
He didn’t wait for an answer. He crossed the room, his gaze locked on hers,