Page 17 of Possessive Billionaire's Twisted Hunt

Ivy remained silent. Every word felt like poison, sinking deep into her. Her heart pounded, each beat echoing in her ears. But then, she forced herself to push it down.

She stood up abruptly, gripping her bag tightly, her knuckles white. Tears welled in her eyes, blurring her vision, but her voice came out sharp, filled with unrestrained fury. “Why should I let him have his way in my life? Why are you asking me to give up everything to make things easier for him? Why should I give him what he wants?” Her voice rose with every word, unhinged, raw with emotion. “Why should I be stuck with him just because he’s too stubborn to let me go?”

Sawyer stiffened, then he sighed deeply, nodding in resignation. His shoulders relaxed slightly as he stood. “It’s fine. It’s alright,” he told her, his voice calm. “I shouldn’t have asked you that. Nevermind. I’ll take care of Christian. You should head back to the hotel now. It’s getting late.”

At once, Ivy turned and walked away, leaving the hospital behind.

Chapter 6 Rage

An entire day had passed since Ivy left the hospital. She had immediately caught a flight home, not wanting to stay there a second longer. When the police reported her attack to her boss, she had expected consequences, but instead, someone else was assigned to handle the project.

She should have felt relieved, but she wasn’t.

Tired and frustrated, she couldn’t focus on work at all. Some unknown irritation gnawed at her, making her restless. And so, after office hours, instead of going home, she found herself at a bar.

She downed drink after drink, continuously ordering margaritas, vodka, anything that could numb her thoughts. But no matter how much she drank, her mind kept circling back—to Christian’s bloodied face, his unconscious eyes, and Sawyer’s words.

No matter how much she wanted to erase him from her life, the universe kept dragging him back in.

She picked up her sixth shot of vodka, preparing to drink it when a man slid into the seat next to her. He had a drink in hand, his clothes casual, a flirtatious smirk tugging at his lips.

Ivy ignored him, leaning her head back and pushing her hair away from her face. She was too drunk to care about whatever nonsense he was saying.

But the man was persistent.

Taking another sip of his drink, he smirked before setting it down. Then, without warning, he leaned in, wrapping an arm around her shoulders, his face inching closer, his intentions clear.

In a split second, a strong hand grabbed him by the collar from behind and yanked him back with a vicious force. The man was thrown onto the ground with a hard thud.

“What the fuck—” he started, but before he could finish, a solid kick landed in his stomach, knocking the air out of him. Christian stood before him, expression dark, his eyes burning with fury.

The bartender, recognizing Christian immediately, gave a silent signal to the security guards. Within seconds, they dragged the man away, ensuring he wouldn’t return.

Christian then turned back to Ivy. A bandage on his forehead.

She was just reaching for another shot of vodka when he snatched the glass out of her hand and slammed it down on the counter.

Gripping her face roughly, he pulled her forward, his voice a dangerous growl.

Then, in an instant, his hand was on her face, gripping her jaw, forcing her to look at him. His breath was hot against her skin as he growled, “Ivy Watson! If you need a fucking man, am I not good enough to satisfy you?”

Ivy frowned, jerking her face out of his grasp. “I don’t want to talk to you,” she murmured, her voice sluggish with alcohol. She stood up, attempting to walk away.

But Christian grabbed her arm and yanked her back. Her body collided against his, his arm locking tightly around her waist. His piercing gaze bore into hers, his jaw clenched with barely restrained anger.

Then, without warning, he bent down and swept her into his arms.

"Let go of me!" she snapped, drunkenly pushing at his chest.

He didn’t.

Furious, he strode out of the bar. He took her straight to his car, securing her inside before roughly driving home. His anger burned through every vein in his body, his grip on the wheel tight.

When they reached his house, he carried her inside and dropped her onto the couch.

Before she could catch her breath, he was on her—one knee pressing into the couch beside her hip, his hand gripping the back of the couch, the other cradling her face with a rough tenderness.

And then, like a man consumed, he crashed his lips against hers.

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