Chapter 493

Vivian's vision swam as oxygen deprivation made her dizzy, yet an intoxicating pleasure coursed through her veins between gasps for air. Adrian had taken her twice, only stopping when he recalled her earlier complaint about nausea. Afterward, he'd tenderly cleaned her up and cocooned her in the plush hotel bedding.

From her nest of blankets, Vivian tracked his movements through half-lidded eyes. When he caught her watching, Adrian muted his microphone and murmured, "Rest now, darling. I've got this investor call."

Her hand shot out from the covers, fingers curling around his wrist. "Don't go," she whispered.

With a sigh, Adrian flipped his laptop camera off and settled against the headboard beside her. Vivian immediately curled against his side, idly toying with the silk tie of his lounging pants.

Meanwhile at the underground fight club...

A masked figure stood like a specter in the blood-splattered ring, his white shirt stained crimson. Even those familiar with Julian Montclair couldn't reconcile this brutal fighter with the sophisticated businessman they knew. The man at his feet - a mountain of muscle now twitching in its death throes - finally stilled beneath the arena lights.

The club physician checked for a pulse before shaking his head. "Gone."

Julian didn't glance at the corpse. "Wire three hundred thousand to his next of kin," he instructed his assistant, wiping sweat from his brow with a bloodied hand.

While death wasn't uncommon in these illicit matches, tonight's audience of thrill-seeking tourists froze in horror. The way Julian had systematically dismantled his opponent - each calculated strike more vicious than the last - left them paralyzed with fear.

Backstage, Julian peeled off his mask and changed into a crisp dress shirt. His assistant gasped upon noticing the gash on his forearm. "Sir, you need medical attention."

Julian examined the wound absently. He remembered the exact moment it happened - when he'd smashed the other fighter's face into the mat for the fifth time. Bone had shattered beneath his knuckles, spraying vitreous fluid across his sleeve. The dying man's desperate clawing had left this mark.

A perverse idea struck him. Seizing a pair of surgical scissors from the dressing table, Julian deliberately reopened the wound, watching blood well up with grim satisfaction. This would get her attention.

"Wait," he called as his assistant turned to leave. "Take me to St. Mary's. Then inform Vivian Hartley."

He needed to know - would she remain curled around her precious Adrian, or come running when she heard he was bleeding?

Back at the Harbor Grand...

Adrian typed furiously during the video conference, his focus absolute. Vivian scrolled mindlessly through her phone until an unknown number flashed across the screen. Her thumb hovered over the answer button as ice slithered down her spine.