Eleanor WitchBourne had been having a perfectly ordinary day, sheâd been reviewing quarterly reports. Boring stuff. But it came with the territory of being groomed to eventually run the WitchBourne hospitality empire. Twenty-six years old, MBA from Cambridge, corner office in the Bristol headquarters with a view of the Avon that most people would kill for.
Perfectly
ordinary.
Perfectly fine even though she knew she was marrying someone to help her family grow stronger.
Now, with a rare pocket of free time in her schedule, it was time to let loose a little. Eleanor was half out of her blouseâtop buttons undone, silk parting to reveal the lace edge of her braâwhen the door opened without a knock and a pervert walked into her office.
She didnât turn immediately. Assumed it was staff. Assumed the soft knock sheâd missed in her focus, the murmured apology, the quick click of the door closing again.
But no apology came.
No click of retreat.
The door stayed open.
And then footstepsâheavy, deliberateâcrossed her threshold like they belonged there.
Eleanor looked up.
A man stood.
Late twenties, maybe early thirties. Handsome in that generic, trust-fund way that rich boys often wereâdark hair styled with too much product, jaw sharp enough to cut glass, suit that probably cost five figures and smelled faintly of expensive cologne even from across the room.
Smile that said heâd never been told
no
in his entire pampered, entitled life.
Behind him, she could see shapes. Men in black suitsâbig, filling the doorway like theyâd been poured into the frame. Theyâd pushed past her own staff, past assistant at the front desk, past every single checkpoint that existed between the lobby and this private sanctum.
Like they owned the place.
Like
he
owned the place.
"Can I help you?"
Eleanor asked, and her voice was ice.
The manâs smile widenedâslow, predatory, eyes raking down her
half-undone
blouse like he was already mentally stripping the rest.
He didnât answer.
Just walked toward her desk with that lazy, confident stride. Like a predator whoâd spotted something interesting.
Like a collector approaching a new acquisition heâd already decided was his.
"Excuse me."
Eleanor stood, blouse still gaping, heart suddenly hammering.
"I asked you a question. Who the hell are you and how did you get past myâ"
He reached for her.
One hand shot outâfast, proprietaryâfingers curling around her
bare waist
where the blouse hung open, digging into soft skin above her skirt. His other hand rose toward her face, thumb brushing her cheek with the casual ownership of a man inspecting livestock heâd already paid for.
Then lowerâ
bold, uninvited
âtracing the edge of her bra through the silk, knuckles grazing the swell of her breast like he had every right.
He was smiling.
Smiling.
His thumb dragged across her lower lipârough, invasiveâtrying to part it, trying to slip inside.
Eleanorâs brain
short-circuited.
Motor function dropped. Every synapse screaming
MOVE
and the body doing nothing because this wasnâtâthis couldnâtâ
His fingers tightened on her waist, pulling her closer, hips bumping the edge of her desk. His breath was hot against her ear.
"Relax, princess. Youâre going to likeâ"
Something snapped.
Eleanorâs training kicked in before her brain caught up.
Six years of Krav Maga.
Four years of Brazilian
Jiu-Jitsu.
Two years of mixed martial arts with a former SAS instructor.
All of it
compressed
into approximately three seconds of extremely focused, white-hot violence.
Her palm connected with his
nose
first. Cartilage crunched like wet gravel. Blood sprayed in a hot arc across her desk, her blouse, her cheek. He staggered back with a choked, gurgling screamâthe universal noise of a man whoâd just discovered that the world didnât actually revolve around his desires.
She followed with a
knee
to the
groinâhard.
Harder than necessary. Full force, no mercy.
The fabric gave way; she felt the soft give of
flesh and testicles
compressing under the blow. He folded in half with a high, strangled wheeze, hands flying to cup himself.
Eleanor grabbed fistfuls of that stupid,
overproduced hair
â
yanked his head down
âand
introduced
his face to her
mahogany desk
.
Once. Twice. Three times. Four.
The fourth was for the way his thumb had tried to push into her mouth. The fifth was for the hand on her breast. Wood thudded wetly against bone; blood smeared in bright streaks across polished surface and antique inlay.
By the time his security burst fully into her officeâshouting, guns half-drawnâEleanor was standing over him with her heel pressed against his throat and a letter opener in her hand, breathing hard, blood on her blouse, on her hands, on the rug, absolutely fucking
incandescent
with rage.
"Get him out,"
she said, voice low and lethal. "Get him out of my office, and if I ever see his face again, I will finish what I started."
The security menâ
his
security menâstared at her like sheâd grown a second head.
Their boss was on the floor. Nose shattered, lip split, cut above his eye weeping red, cheek already swelling purple. Moaning softly. Definitely concussed. Possibly worse.
And this womanâthis slip of a girl in her pencil skirt and designer heelsâhad done it in less time than it took to brew a cup of tea.
"Now,"
Eleanor added, and pressed her heel down slightlyâenough to make him choke on a whimper. "Or I call the police and we find out exactly how much diplomatic immunity your paperwork actually covers."
They moved.
Dragged him out by the arms, leaving a smear of blood on her antique Persian rug and a trail of crimson droplets down the hallway.
The door closed behind them.
Eleanor stood alone in her office, heart hammering, hands shaking with adrenaline, blood cooling on her skin, wondering what the hell had just happened.
She found out two minutes later when Edmund WitchBourne calledâshouting before she could even say hello.
Thirty minutes after that, his helicopter landed on the buildingâs roof pad with a roar, and he stormed into her office with a face like a thundercloud, her mother two steps behind, pale as milk and wringing her hands
like a Victorian widow
at a funeral.
When Eleanor saw the look in their eyesânot concern, not relief that she was okay, but raw, naked
fear
âshe realized whatever sheâd done, it was worse than sheâd imagined.
"Do you have any idea,"
Edmund said, and his voice was a controlled explosion, each word bitten off like he was chewing glass,
"what youâve done?"
Eleanor blinked, still wiping blood from her cheek with a trembling hand.
"I defended myself. A man walked into my office without permission and tried toâ"
"That man," Edmund cut her off, "was
Evan Price
."
The name landed like a bomb.
Eleanorâs blood went cold.
"The
second son of the Price Legacy Family
. The man you were supposed to marry. The man whose family could END US with a single phone call."
He was pacing now. Back and forth across her office like a caged animal. His composureâthat legendary WitchBourne composure that had survived centuries of political upheavalâwas cracking at the seams.
"He arrived a day early. Wanted to surprise you. Wanted to meet his future wife before the formal introductions. And youâ" He spun on her, finger jabbing at the air. "You broke his nose. Gave him a concussion. Nearly blinded him with a letter opener. His family is going to demand bloodâliteral blood, Eleanor. Theyâll want yours."
"I didnât know who he was!"
"You should have asked!"
"He didnât give me the chance!" Eleanorâs voice rose to match his. "He walked in like he owned the place. His guards pushed past my security. No announcement. No introduction. No anything. And then he justâreached for me. Grabbed my waist. Touched my chest. Tried to shove his thumb in my mouth like I was already
his
property.
Like I wasâ"
Her voice cracked.
Like I was property.
Like I was already his.
"What was I supposed to do?" she demanded, tears burning hot behind her eyes. "Stand there and let him have his way? Let some stranger put his hands on me just because his guards were bigger than mine? I have training, Father. Training you paid for. Was I supposed to pretend I didnât? Was I supposed to be helpless?"
"You were supposed to show
restraint!
Thatâs what your mother and I taught you!"
"He was molesting me!
Care about that first!"
The words echoed off the walls.
Silence fell.
Heavy. Suffocating. The kind of silence that precedes either violence or tears.
Eleanorâs mother spoke for the first timeâvoice small, trembling.
"Darling... the Prices donât forgive. They donât forget. And they neverâeverâlet slights like this go unanswered."
Her voice was soft. Trembling. "You have to understand, darling. The Prices... theyâre not like us. Theyâre Legacy. Do you know what that really means? Do you truly understand?"
Eleanorâs laugh was brittle, sharp enough to cut glass. "I understand that a man assaulted me in my own office and Iâm somehow the one being blamed for it, Mum."
"Itâs not about blameâ"
"Then what
is
it about?!" Eleanor spun to face her mother, tears burning hot in her eyes nowâangry, furious tears she refused to let fall. "I was in office, mom! And thisâthis
person
walked in like he had every right to be there and tried to put his hands on me without so much as a hello and molested me. What was I supposed to do? What would
you
have done?"