Jarrah’s Interception

Marlo

Jarrah’s fingers didn't loosen his grip around Arthur Sterling’s throat, even as Cal’s voice echoed over the stone balcony with the terrifying news of the emergency court hearing downstairs.

Sterling’s face was turning a deep, sickening shade of purple. His hands clawed frantically at Jarrah’s forearm, but Jarrah didn't move an inch. He stood there like a predator carved from solid obsidian, his black tuxedo unruffled, his broad shoulders completely blocking the freezing wind off the bay.

"Jarrah," I whispered, stepping up behind him and resting my trembling hand against his broad back. The muscle beneath his jacket was as hard as iron, vibrating with a dark, rage. "Don't kill him here. Not like this."

Jarrah didn't look back at me. Slowly, deliberately, he leaned in closer to Sterling’s gasping, terrified face.

Instead of letting him go, Jarrah shifted his weight just an inch. He brought his right hand down, his large thumb pressing straight into the delicate nerves right behind Sterling’s jawbone.

It wasn't a showy punch. It was a silent, terrifying display of pure physical dominance the kind of calculated, bone crushing pressure he used on the ice to break opposing players without the referee ever calling a penalty.

Sterling let out a muffled, agonizing whimper. His knees completely gave out, his polished shoes dragging against the floor as Jarrah slowly forced the powerful older man down onto his knees in front of me.

"You listen to me very carefully, Arthur," Jarrah growled, his voice low, terrifying rasp that sent a cold shiver sliding down my spine. "You step within ten feet of my wife again, you speak her name, or you even look in her direction and I won't just ruin your company. I will tear your life apart piece by piece until there is nothing left of you to bury."

Jarrah let go. Sterling collapsed onto the cold floor, coughing violently, clutching his neck as he scrambled backward like a beaten dog.

Jarrah turned to me. The unhinged darkness in his eyes was suffocating, burning with an intense, possessive heat that made my heart hammer wildly against my ribs. He reached out, his large, calloused hand wrapping firmly around my waist, pulling me flush against his side. He didn't care that wealthy donors and high society elites were watching from the glass doors. He was marking his territory, proving to every monster in the room that I belonged under his shadow.

"Cal," Jarrah commanded, his voice cold and steady. "Clear the private elevator. We’re going down to the lobby."

"Right away, boss," Cal grunted, turning to march back into the ballroom.

I leaned into Jarrah’s hard body, yielding completely to the heavy, protective warmth radiating off him. The slow-burning fire between us flared bright and dangerous. He was a ruthless monster, but in a world full of liars and backstabbers, his terrifying possessiveness was the only truth I had left.

"Are you alright, little bird?" he murmured against my temple, his rough thumb lightly stroking my hip over the silk of my dress.

"I'm fine," I whispered, my fingers curling tightly into the lapel of his tuxedo. "We can't let them take the land, Jarrah. We can't let Siobhan win."

"She won't," he growled softly, kissing the side of my forehead. "Over my dead body."

We turned and moved quickly back into the warm, glittering ballroom. The crowd parted around us in dead silence. No one dared to make eye contact with Jarrah. His reputation as a predator on and off the ice was sealed, and the fear in the room was so thick you could taste it.

As Jarrah navigated us through the sea of tuxedoes and evening gowns toward the elevator bank, a slender figure in a dark coat brushed past my shoulder.

I bumped lightly into her.

It was Tamsin Sterling me.

Her pale face was drawn, her eyes red rimmed and hollow with sheer, unadulterated terror. She didn't look at Jarrah, and she didn't say a word to me but in the brief second our shoulders touched, I felt her slender hand slide past my hip.

A quiet click echoed near my waist as the silver latch of my designer evening clutch gave a subtle pop.

Tamsin didn't stop. She kept walking, blending silently into the crowd of wealthy guests, her white coat vanishing through the main exit doors like a ghost.

I paused, my heart leaping into my throat.

"Marlo?" Jarrah asked, his grip on my waist tightening as he stopped beside me. "What is it?"

"Nothing," I murmured, my breath catching in my chest. "Just lost my balance for a second."

While Jarrah scanned the crowd ahead, I lowered my gaze and discreetly unlatched my clutch. I reached my fingers inside, feeling past my lipstick and compact mirror.

My fingertips brushed against something small, hard, and cold.

A heavy, black metallic flash drive, wrapped in a scrap of paper.

My heart hammered frantically against my ribs. I kept my fingers hidden inside the bag, carefully unfolding the paper with my thumb. In the dim lighting near the elevator doors, I glanced down at the single line of frantic handwriting scribbled across the note:

Don't go to the lobby. The court hearing is a distraction. Siobhan’s men are in the elevator with you.

Before I could even scream or grab Jarrah’s arm, the heavy doors of the private elevator in front of us slid open with a soft, mechanical ding.

Standing inside the small, mirrors lined elevator cabin were three men in tactical vests, holding silenced submachine guns aimed directly at Jarrah’s chest and standing right behind them, holding a small remote detonator, was Aunt Siobhan.