Page 33 of The Bossy Billionaire

“I’m okay. My head hurts a little from where the rock hit me, but it’s fine.” She sniffles, sounding tired.

“Jesus,” I murmur as I run my hand lightly across her forehead, moving the hair out of her face before I lower it, placing it on her thigh. I hear her breathing hitch.

“Your leg is sore?” I ask her, knowing that it must be.

“Yeah…” she breathes out, and I can feel her body starting to relax on mine.

“Okay, just take deep breaths.” My hand slowly massages her thigh, trying to ease the tension there. I have no idea what I am doing. I haven’t touched a woman like this since Amy, but I know massage helps her. She has mentioned that before. I start slow and soft before increasing the pressure. I feel her scar under her sweats. It is raised, the skin firm around it, but the more I massage, the more relaxed she becomes. We sit peacefully for a little while, my hand never stopping, and I listen for her breaths and hear them slow, her body feeling heavy in my arms.

I take the opportunity to look around her apartment. I was only here a short time previously, my thoughts more on her and her lips than her furnishings. It is exactly how I imagined it to be. Comforting, homely, quiet. The sofa we are on is big and plush with lots of cushions and a soft blanket that I imagine her curling up in. There is a small fireplace, giving a nice warm glow to the space, a bookcase along one wall filled with books, and another armchair that looks like it is her reading chair. I imagine her sitting there with the lamp on overhead, reading her latest novel. That thought makes me smile a little.

It is an open plan, so I can see a small dining area and the kitchen beyond it. There are framed photos of who I assume are her adoptive parents, her as a kid, new ones of her and her brothers. Her space is in complete contrast to my city high-rise that is cold, empty, heartless.

I take a peek down at her. Her eyes are closed, her lips parted, small tufts of breath falling from her lips, and I take a deep breath myself. She is asleep, and I feel relieved that she is okay, but still confused as to what happened.

With commotion still happening downstairs, I lift her from me carefully and lay her on the sofa, pulling the blanket over her and making sure she is warm. Then it’s time to face the music as I tiptoe downstairs to figure out what the hell happened.

“Where is she?” Harrison is on me before I even get down the stairs.

“Sleeping. What the fuck happened?” I ask him as her brothers and I all converge to a quiet corner in the shop.

“Police say a rock was thrown through the window,” Eddie says, and I nod.

“She told me that. She also told me that wasn’t the first time something like this has happened,” I tell them, and they look at me, shocked, their bodies filled with pure anger.

“What do you mean?” Ben asks, already on guard.

“I noticed new locks on the front door when I was here earlier today. She said the lock broke when the door slammed, but I am pretty sure she has been fearful of her safety for a while.”

“Fearful of who?” Tennyson asks, his tone barely restrained.

“She didn’t say. Why didn’t your guys pick this up?” I ask Harrison, because Lucy has told me about the security that follows her, and I know Harrison would have organized that.

“What guys?” He narrows his eyes at me with utter confusion.

I pause for a minute, ensuring my brain catches up with my mouth.

“What guys, Hux?” Harrison growls as all the four Rothschild men step close.

“Lucy told me a few weeks ago you have security following her. I was going to put someone on her because she told me that the shop gets busy with people just coming to look. But she said you have security on her. That a car follows her?” This feels bad. Really bad.

“I don’t have security on her. Boys, tell me one of you organized that?” Harrison seethes at his brothers.

“Fuck,” Tennyson says, pulling at his hair.

“No. She didn’t want it… She was adamant,” Eddie says, looking pale.

Ben shakes his head, silently fuming.

“You can’t be fucking serious?” I say as we all just now realize that whatever is going on with her is bigger than any of us could imagine.

“Who the fuck would follow her?” Ben asks.

“Fucking pick a number,” I murmur, rubbing my head.

“Who?” Harrison barks, clearly upset with himself.

“Press? A fucking family stalker? Who the fuck knows.”

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