The Widow's Price: Owned By Adrien

2

Adrien looked down at the woman melting against him. She was a mess of grief and chemicals, her body burning up, her mind gone. Disgust curled in his gut-not at her, but at the situation. At the vultures outside who had done this to her.

He should throw her out. He should open the door and let Chloe Soto drag her sister through the mud. It would be cleaner. Easier.

Aurora whimpered, her hands sliding up his chest, tangling around his neck. She was seeking an anchor.

"Fuck," Adrien muttered.

He bent down, sweeping an arm behind her knees and hoisting her up. She weighed nothing. She felt fragile, like a bird made of hollow bones and sorrow.

He carried her across the suite, kicking the bathroom door open with his boot. The room was all marble and chrome, cold and unforgiving. Just how he liked it.

He didn't hesitate. He walked straight to the walk-in shower and set her down on the tiled floor. She looked up at him, dazed, a small smile playing on her lips as if she expected a kiss.

Adrien reached for the handle and cranked it all the way to the right. Cold.

The water hit her like a physical blow.

Aurora screamed. It was a sharp, ragged sound that bounced off the tile walls. She scrambled back, slipping on the wet floor, her hands flailing.

"Stop! Please!" she gasped, coughing as the icy spray soaked her black dress, plastering it to her skin.

"Stay there," Adrien ordered. He stepped into the spray, his expensive Italian loafers soaking up the water, unbothered. He grabbed her shoulders, pinning her under the stream.

"Let me go!" Aurora fought him, her nails digging into his wrists. The shock of the cold was doing its job. The haze in her eyes was clearing, replaced by sharp, terrified clarity.

She looked up, blinking water out of her lashes, and finally saw him. Really saw him.

Adrien Larsen. The man who had allegedly nearly beaten his own father to death. The man Wall Street whispered about in fear.

Aurora stopped fighting. She shrank back against the tiles, her teeth beginning to chatter violently. She wrapped her arms around herself, trying to hide.

"A-Adrien," she stammered.

"Welcome back to the land of the living," he said flatly. He turned off the water.

The silence that followed was heavy, broken only by the dripping of her dress and the ragged sound of her breathing.

Adrien looked her over. The black dress was ruined, heavy with water, clinging to every curve of her body. It was transparent in places it shouldn't be. He felt a stir of heat in his blood, unwanted and irritating. He killed it instantly.

He stepped out of the shower and grabbed a thick white towel from the rack, throwing it at her face.

"Dry off. Take the dress off."

Aurora pulled the towel down, her face pale. "W-what?"

"You can't walk out of here like that," Adrien said, turning his back to her. He walked to the sink, checking his reflection. His hair was damp. "Unless you want everyone downstairs to see exactly what you're wearing underneath."

Aurora looked down. The wet silk left nothing to the imagination. Shame flushed her cheeks, warring with the cold.

"I... I don't have anything else," she whispered.

Adrien sighed, the sound impatient. He walked out of the bathroom. A moment later, he returned and tossed a white dress shirt at her. It landed on the wet floor.

"Put it on."

Aurora stared at the shirt. It was his. It smelled like him.

"Turn around," she said, her voice trembling.

"Don't test my patience, Aurora," he said, his voice dangerously low. "Just put the damn shirt on. Or would you prefer I help you?" But he turned around anyway, crossing his arms over his chest.

He listened to the sound of wet fabric peeling off skin. The rustle of dry cotton. His imagination supplied the visuals he was refusing to look at. He clenched his jaw.

"I'm done," she said softly.

Adrien turned.

She was drowning in his shirt. The cuffs hung past her fingertips. The hem hit her mid-thigh. The top two buttons were undone, revealing the hollow of her throat and the frantic pulse beating there. She looked small. Defeated. And dangerously appealing.

A heavy knock pounded on the main door of the suite.

"Housekeeping! We had a report of a leak?"

It was a lie. Chloe's minions.

Adrien crossed the space between them in a second, crowding her against the sink. He put a finger to her lips. His eyes were hard, promising violence if she made a sound.

"Not a word," he hissed. "If they find you here, wearing my shirt, your life is over."

Aurora nodded, her eyes wide. She stood on her tiptoes, pressing back against the cold mirror, trapped between the hard surface and the harder man.

"Why?" she whispered against his finger. "Why are you helping me?"

Adrien pulled his hand away. He didn't answer. He couldn't tell her that she was the only thing in this house that didn't make him want to burn it down.

"Check the hallway," he said to himself, pulling out his phone. As executor of Clark's will and the silent partner who owned half this estate's debt, Adrien's authority here was absolute. He sent a single text to his security, a team loyal only to him. Clear the West Wing.

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