Chapter 11 Illusion

My pulse faltered, a sharp jolt in my chest.

His breath was hot, searing against my skin, each word rasping with a force that threatened to shatter the walls I had built.

Care? How could I dare to care?

"Mr. Russell, you're losing too much blood. You're imagining things." I turned my head away, trying to wrench free from his grip, though my voice trembled despite my will.

"Imagining?" His laugh was low, edged with self-mockery and something dangerously close to madness.

In one swift motion, his arm tightened around me, trapping me between his body and the cold wall. His injured arm was inches from my face, blood tracing a dark path down taut muscle, dripping onto the white tile. The metallic scent mingled with the sharp tang of disinfectant, filling my lungs until breathing felt like swallowing fire.

"Sophia. Look at me." His uninjured hand caught my chin, forcing my gaze to meet the fire burning in his amber eyes.

"I took a bullet for you... and you feel nothing? Is your heart made of stone?"

"I don't know what you're talking about!" My voice broke, tears spilling over before I could stop them.

Those tears lit a fuse in him.

"Good. Very good." His teeth ground together, his voice low and dangerous.

He closed the distance, his presence crushing the air between us. His mouth claimed mine, the taste of iron sharp between us. The kiss was not tender—it was a demand, a punishment, a statement that left no room for refusal.

I pushed against him, my hands finding the hard plane of his chest. My palm brushed near his wound, drawing a sharp breath from him. Instead of releasing me, he held me tighter, his voice a growl. "Your body tells me more than your words ever will."

The heat between us was suffocating, every inch of space charged with something raw and unyielding. My pulse thundered, my thoughts tangled between fear and a dangerous pull I could not name. The wall at my back felt like ice, as if the building itself had turned against me.

He leaned in, his forehead pressed to mine, his breath ragged. "You want this... don't you?"

I froze, caught between denial and the truth my body refused to hide. The air seemed to thicken, the sound of water dripping somewhere in the background marking each second like a countdown.

Before I could speak, the shrill ring of his phone cut through the tension.

Arthur straightened, his expression shifting as he pulled the device from his pocket. Without looking at me, he pressed the speaker button.

"Boss," a voice came through, urgent and breathless. "We caught one of the attackers alive, but he wouldn't talk. Took his own life. We found something on him, though."

My stomach knotted, a cold weight settling inside me.

"Go on," Arthur said, his voice flat as slate.

"A ring. Antique design, worn tight on his little finger. There's a symbol etched into the metal…" The voice faltered. "Boss… it's an Ouroboros ring."

The words slammed into me like a blow.

Arthur lowered the phone slowly, his gaze losing all warmth. "Sophia... is there something you want to tell me?"

I forced a confused tone. "What is that? Some jewelry brand?"

His eyes were cold steel, cutting through every layer of pretense. "Sophia," he said, rising to his full height, his steps deliberate, heavy with intent, "I took a bullet for you. And all I get... is another lie?"

"I'm not lying!" I shouted, backing away.

He moved in fast, bracing his hands on either side of me, caging me in. The air between us vibrated with tension, the shadow he cast swallowing me whole. "Do you think I don't know? The weapon they used was a Sicelra antique—standard issue for the Davis Family. And now one of them is wearing a Davis ring."

His face was close, his breath hot against my cheek, every word a hammer blow. "Tell me, Sophia... what is your connection to the Davis Family? What makes them want you dead?"

When he spoke the name, something inside me went cold. My silence was answer enough, and he knew it.

"Fine." His voice was a blade.

He didn't wait for explanations. His hands closed on me with unyielding force, his presence pressing down like a storm breaking over the sea. Every movement was deliberate, a physical reminder of his fury. The air between us was electric, his anger radiating in waves that left no room for escape. The room seemed smaller, the walls leaning in, trapping us together.

"This isn't affection," he said, his tone flat and dangerous. "This is punishment. And I want you to remember exactly what betrayal feels like."

His grip shifted, holding me in a way that made resistance impossible. The pressure, the proximity, the sheer dominance in his stance—it was all a warning, a promise of consequences. My breath caught, my chest tight, my pulse a drumbeat I couldn't control.

"Tell me who you are," he demanded, his voice a low growl. "Tell me why you came to me. Tell me what you're hiding."