Chapter 8 Fierce Kiss

I took a deep breath, scanning the shelves, trying to steady my racing thoughts. “Cathrine wants me to familiarize myself with the guest list for the yacht gala, as well as any collaboration projects the company has been involved in,” I said, keeping my tone casual, hoping it sounded like just a task.

I glanced at James, hoping he wouldn’t press too hard for details.

“Alright, let’s start with the collaboration projects, then,” he said, stepping over to the third shelf.

I followed, trying to keep my expression neutral. As I reached for the first box, I forced myself to focus, pushing aside the mounting anxiety.

The first few boxes contained only the usual—meeting notes, partnership proposals, and reports on various joint ventures with other tech firms. Nothing that stood out. I shuffled through them quickly, noting the names of executives, clients, and timelines.

I took a steadying breath, my eyes scanning the shelves as I moved from one row to the next.

The shelves were meticulously organized, rows upon rows of boxes and files, each neatly labeled in bold letters. I moved down the aisle, my fingers trailing lightly over the labels, letting my eyes scan the neatly arranged boxes. But then, something caught my eye.

There, tucked in the farthest corner of the shelf, was an old box—dull, gray, and covered in a thin layer of dust. The box itself looked out of place amidst the newer, pristine files, as though it had been shoved back in haste and left to gather dust.

It seemed like it hadn’t been touched in years. A thin strip of faded paper barely clung to the top, but I could make out one word—Biotech.

My pulse quickened.

I reached out, my fingers grazing the edge of the box—but it was too far inside the shelf. I stretched, trying to get a better grip, but it was just out of reach. The box sat there, taunting me, as if it were meant to remain hidden.

“Need some help?” James’s voice broke through the silence, his figure moving into my peripheral vision.

Without waiting for me to respond, he reached past me, his hand brushing mine as he grasped the box with ease.

He didn’t seem to notice, or perhaps he did and didn’t care. His fingers lingered just slightly longer than necessary, and for a second, our eyes met.

Just at that moment—

“What’s going on here?”

A cold voice cut through the air.

It was only then that I realized the door had opened without me noticing.

I spun around, heart lurching in my chest, as my eyes locked onto the figure standing in the doorway.

Alan.

His dark eyes narrowed and his jaw clenched, exuding a coldness that filled the room.

The air in the room was replaced by a chill that made the temperature in the room drop several degrees.

I instinctively stepped back, hastily creating some space between me and James.

The silence in the air became almost suffocating.

Alan stepped forward, and stopped directly in front of James, his eyes flashing with coldness. “What are you doing here?”

James didn’t flinch, looking into Alan’s eyes.

“I was just passing by,” he explained calmly. “Saw Christa having a trouble, so I helped.”

Alan’s lips pressed into a thin line, his gaze flicking to me for a moment, then back to James.

“Work schedule not tight enough for you?” he asked, his tone slicing through the air. “Lloyd Group doesn’t need employees wandering through the archives without a purpose.”

I felt the sting in his words, so I spoke out, almost instinctively. “It’s not like that. James was just being helpful. It’s nothing more.”

Alan’s eyes snapped to mine, and I could almost see the storm brewing within him—anger, jealousy, something dangerously close to out of control.

He stepped closer and positioned himself squarely between James and me.

“Christa’s business is none of yours,” he spat, his voice low, almost growling.”You should know your place.”

James’s lips tightened, but he didn’t retaliate. His eyes locked with mine for a brief moment, offering a reassuring smile. “I’ll leave you to it. Good luck with your task, Christa.”

James left the room, the door clicked shut behind.

The silence that followed felt suffocating.

Alan stood there for a moment, his back to me, as if composing himself. I could feel something radiating from him, the tension still thick in the air.

Suddenly, Alan locked the door, the sharp click of the lock echoing in the confined space. His eyes, dark and intense, pinned me in place, like a predator cornering its prey.

I was startled. “What are you doing?”

He didn’t answer right away. And his gaze didn’t leave mine as he stepped toward me. Slowly, methodically, he closed the distance between us until my back hit the cold metal of the shelves. I was trapped, caught between the rigid structure and the heat of his body. I had nowhere to go.

“Tell me, Christa” his voice was low, dangerously calm, “why were you so close to James?”

My pulse spiked, anger surging in my chest.I pushed back against the shelves, trying to create some distance, but it was futile.

“Why does it matter to you?” I shot back, my voice sharp. “Who I interact with is none of your business. And aren’t you a little too comfortable controlling my every move?”

Alan’s jaw clenched tight, eyes burning with something darker.

In that instant, I could feel the air shift. My instinct screamed at me to escape, but it’s already too late.

Without warning, he moved. His hand shot out, grabbing my waist with unrelenting force, pulling me into him. I gasped, my body instinctively pressing against his, the heat of him searing through my clothes. But it wasn’t enough.

His lips came down on mine, hard, desperate. I barely had time to react before his tongue slid past my lips, pressing into mine with an urgency that stole my breath away. It tangled with mine, moving in a heated rhythm that sent shivers through me.

His kiss was fierce, filled with anger and something far more consuming. His frustration, his desire, his need—it all came pouring out of him, his lips claiming mine as if to erase every inch of space between us. I couldn’t think, couldn’t breathe.

He wasn’t just kissing me; he was claiming me, marking me in a way words never could. His fingers dug into my waist, pulling me closer, tighter, as if to stake his territory.

I could feel his body, all heat and strength, pressing against me, the muscles of his chest and stomach hard under my hands as if to reinforce the very power of his touch.

I gasped against his mouth, the shock cutting through the anger and confusion swirling inside me. But before I could gather my thoughts, his lips were on mine again, even more urgent, more frantic. The rawness of his emotions bled through with every kiss, every movement, unfiltered and overwhelming.

When he finally broke away, I was left breathless, unable to focus. His hands didn’t leave my body, though—his arms like iron around me, as if afraid I might disappear. I leaned against him, feeling completely drained.

His breath was ragged, his voice low and raw, as he murmured into my ear, “You’re mine, Christa.”

He wasn’t angry with me, but at the thought of me with someone else.