Chapter 7 - "Who Gave You Permission to Touch Her?" The Voice That Froze the Room
The security guard in the gatehouse dropped his coffee cup.
He scrambled out into the rain, his hand resting on the holster of his sidearm. “Hey! Mr. Kovac! What are you doing? She’s under arrest for grand larceny! Mr. Hawthorne said she stays outside until the police—”
Dragan turned his head.
The look in Dragan’s gray eyes was not anger.
It was something infinitely worse. It was the absolute, icy stillness of an apex predator determining whether an insect deserved to be crushed.
The guard stopped dead in his tracks. His hand froze on his holster. His throat went dry, and a cold sweat broke out across his neck despite the freezing rain.
“Open the gate,” Dragan said.
His voice was barely above a whisper, but it carried the weight of an executioner’s axe.
“Sir... I can’t... Miss Merrill gave strict orders—”
Dragan’s bodyguard, a towering mountain of a man named Boris, stepped out from the driver’s side. In a flash of steel, Boris drew a heavy suppressed automatic pistol and pressed the cold muzzle directly against the guard’s forehead.
“Open the gate,” Boris murmured pleasantly. “Or I paint this pillar with your brains.”
The guard trembled violently, fumbled with the remote control in his pocket, and pressed the button.
The heavy iron gates swung open with a screech.
Dragan carried Nadia back through the gates of the Hawthorne estate, walking up the sweeping drive with measured, unhurried strides.
Inside the grand foyer, Theodore and Clarissa were sipping vintage brandy by the fire, waiting for the police sirens.
The heavy double oak doors of the mansion were kicked open with an explosive crash that shook the crystal chandelier overhead.
Clarissa gasped, spilling her brandy across the silk rug.
Theodore sprang to his feet. “What is the meaning of this?!”
Dragan walked into the warm foyer, carrying Nadia. He walked straight over to the antique velvet chaise lounge—the one Clarissa had specifically designated as for high-society guests only—and gently placed Nadia down upon it.
He carefully tucked the cashmere coat around her shivering frame, brushed a wet strand of hair from her pale forehead, and then slowly turned around.
The atmosphere in the room plummeted to sub-zero temperatures.
“Dragan?” Theodore stuttered, looking between his friend and the maid. “What are you doing? She stole Clarissa’s emeralds! Why did you bring her back in here?”
Dragan walked toward Theodore and Clarissa. Each step echoed like a funeral bell on the polished marble.
He stopped three feet from Clarissa.
Clarissa instinctively took a step back, her confidence vanishing beneath the terrifying aura radiating from the man in front of her.
“Clarissa Merrill,” Dragan said, his voice deadly quiet. “Who gave you permission to touch her?”
“I... she’s a thief!” Clarissa shrieked, trying to regain her authority. “She’s a servant in this house! I have the right to discipline the staff! She stole my jewelry!”
Dragan reached into his breast pocket.
May you like
He pulled out a small, sleek black thumb drive and tossed it onto the glass coffee table between them.
“Play it,” Dragan said without blinking.
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