Sheltered By The Ruthless Hockey King

Eleanor POV:

"Grab her! If she gets lost, the Guy family will take away all our bonuses for this month!"

The shout cut through the roar of the rain like a blade, sharp enough to pierce the thunder overhead.

My bare feet slapped against the cold, slick asphalt of the back alley, each step a splash of icy water. The ruined hem of my wedding dress, heavy with rain, twisted around my legs; I tore it free, silk ripping, the sound swallowed by another clap of thunder. My lungs burned, a fire raging in my chest, but fear was a more potent fuel.

Behind me, the heavy footsteps of the two bodyguards echoed off the brick walls, closing in.

An image of my adoptive mother, Sharon Guy, flashed in my mind. Her perfectly manicured smile, the glint in her eyes as she said, "Eleanor, this is for the good of the family.If only you marry into their family, we can secure more financial backing from the Stephensons."

She had worn that same smile when she signed the marriage contract. That was how she pushed me into this hell. A sharp, physical ache of betrayal twisted in my gut, more painful than the burning in my lungs.

I risked a glance over my shoulder. They were too close. I pushed harder, spotting a dumpster blocking part of the path. I vaulted over it, but my left knee scraped hard against the rusted metal edge.

A raw, searing pain shot up my leg. I nearly buckled, a cry catching in my throat. I bit it back, tasting blood, and forced myself to keep moving. Blood, warm and slick, mixed with the cold rain running down my shin.

Up ahead, a sliver of brighter light. The end of the alley. The main street. My only hope.

Then, other men burst from a side passage, cutting me off. He stood there, blocking my only exit, a cruel grin spreading across his face.

Panic seized me. I spun around, desperate, and ran blindly in the other direction.

I slammed into something hard and unyielding. The impact sent a dull thud through the alley and a dizzying shockwave through my skull.

I stumbled backward, my vision swimming. It was a car. A black Rolls-Royce Phantom, parked silently at the mouth of the alley, its massive form like a panther waiting in the shadows.

Its headlights flared to life, blinding me, pinning me in their glare like a terrified animal. I instinctively threw a hand over my mouth, frozen.

The two bodyguards caught up, flanking me. The lead guard grabbed my bare arm, his fingers digging into my skin hard enough to bruise. I twisted, trying to break free, but he yanked me backward. Their expressions shifted from predatory confidence to something more cautious as they took in the car.

Then, the rear window glided down.

In the shadows of the backseat, I saw the profile of a man. His jawline was a sharp, clean line, as unforgiving as a blade.

For a fraction of a second, his hand rested on the armrest inside the door. Then his gaze found my face. His fingers curled, knuckles going white against the leather-a single, almost imperceptible tightening. Recognition. It was there and gone, crushed behind the ice in his eyes. His jaw locked.

A primal instinct for survival took over. I lunged toward the open window, my hands slapping against the cool, smooth glass.

"Please," I rasped, my voice raw. "Please, help me! Take me with you! I can't go back. I won't."

The man inside didn't move. His eyes, the color of ice, flickered over me, then to the men behind me. The cold indifference in that glance made my heart plummet.

One of the bodyguards stepped forward, impatient. He tried to grab my arm. "Sir, this is a family matter," he said gruffly. "Miss Guy is to be married tonight. Please don't interfere."

I flinched back, a wave of utter despair washing over me. This was it. I was trapped.

Just as his fingers were about to close around my arm, the driver's side door clicked open. A man in a tailored suit, Eric Hendrix, stepped out, holding a large black umbrella. He moved with swift, silent efficiency to the rear door.

He pulled it open respectfully.

A single, impeccably polished custom leather shoe emerged, landing in a puddle with a soft splash.

Then, a man of staggering height unfolded himself from the car. He took the umbrella from his assistant and simply stood there. His presence was so immense, so powerful, it seemed to suck the very air out of the alley.

It was the man from the backseat. Now, in the dim light, I could see his face. He was brutally handsome, but his ice-blue eyes held no warmth at all.

The bodyguards saw him and their faces paled. One of them stammered, "Mr. Osborne?"

Alessandro Osborne. The name hit me like a lightning strike. The famous hockey star. The heir to the Osborne family fortune.

He ignored the bodyguards. His gaze dropped to my soaked, torn wedding dress, then to my bleeding knee. His brow furrowed, a barely perceptible tightening. Then his eyes returned to my face, and for one heartbeat the mask slipped. His grip on the umbrella handle tightened until the tendons in his hand stood out.

The bodyguard tried to drag me away, still trying to justify himself. "Mr. Osborne, this is on our boss's orders..."

Alessandro took one step forward. It wasn't fast, but it was precise, placing his body directly between me and them. He was a wall, a fortress, blocking out all threat.

He didn't even look at them. His voice was flat, almost bored, but it carried an unnerving weight. "Let her go."

The sound was quiet, yet it held the absolute certainty of a command that would be obeyed.

The bodyguard's hand froze mid-air. The arrogance on his face curdled into fear. The other guard took a step back, as if the rain itself had turned to ice.

Alessandro turned his head, and those glacial blue eyes met mine. He spoke again, and this time, there was a flicker of something else in his tone, something I couldn't name. "Get in the car."

I stared, unable to process it.

Behind him, the other guard started to speak, but a single, cold glance from Alessandro silenced him. The lead guard opened his mouth, then closed it. No one moved.

I looked at the man in front of me. He was my only chance. I didn't hesitate. Ignoring the screaming pain in my knee, I scrambled around him and dove into the warm, dry sanctuary of the Rolls-Royce.

The door closed behind me, shutting out the storm and the hunters. I was safe. The tension that had held me together snapped.

A moment later, Alessandro Osborne slid into the seat beside me. I could smell the faint, clean scent of expensive cologne and rain on his clothes.

I lifted my head and met a pair of eyes, deep and cold as a frozen lake. Alessandro was watching me, his expression unfathomable. Then he pulled a brand-new, monogrammed handkerchief from his pocket and held it out to me.

"Where to?" he asked, his voice calm.

Alessandro POV:

I watched the girl beside me. She was soaked through,like a cornered animal. My hand, resting on my knees, tightened into fists.

Those wide, warm brown eyes, filled with a wariness, were still startlingly clear.

I knew exactly who she was. Eleanor Nash. An orphan adopted by the Guy family, and the gifted digital artist I have long admired.

She hadn't answered me. Her fingers curled around the handkerchief I'd just offered, but she didn't look at it.

I waited. When the silence stretched on, I understood she had nowhere to go.

"Drive," I told Eric. "Home first." The car pulled away smoothly, melting into the river of New York's nighttime traffic.

I shrugged off my suit jacket and draped it over her shoulders.

The movement startled her. She looked up at me, her eyes wide with suspicion and confusion.

I offered no explanation. I just spoke to my driver. "Turn up the heat."

"Thank you," she whispered, her voice barely audible. She pulled the jacket tighter around herself and buried her face in the collar, leaving only her eyes visible, watching me.

I leaned back against the headrest and closed my eyes, feigning rest. But through my lashes, I watched her. Her dress was torn at the hem. Her ankles were red and swollen. The gash on her knee was still sluggishly weeping blood. My jaw clenched.

I pulled out my phone and sent a text to my chief investigator, Julian Hayes. Look into the Guy family and Stephenson Group. All recent activity. Specifically anything related to Eleanor Nash.

Eleanor Nash. I repeated the name in my mind.

The wariness in her eyes began to soften. Maybe it was exhaustion, or maybe the warmth of the car and the weight of the jacket finally made her feel safe. Her head began to nod. Finally, it tilted to the side and came to rest on my shoulder.

Her soft, even breaths fanned across my neck. My entire body went rigid.

I turned my head slightly. I could see her long lashes, dark against her pale skin, fluttering in her sleep. I held my position, not daring to move, not wanting to wake her.

Eric glanced in the rearview mirror. A flicker of surprise crossed his face behind his glasses, but he was a professional. He said nothing and kept his eyes on the road.

I had never let any woman this close. But she was different.

I watched the neon lights of the city streak past the window. A plan was beginning to form in my mind. I would keep her with me.

She must have been having a nightmare. Her body twitched, and a small, muffled whimper escaped her lips.

My hand moved on its own, an instinct to soothe her, but I stopped it mid-air. I couldn't risk frightening her.

I pulled my hand back, merely shifting my weight to let her rest more comfortably against me.

The car finally came to a stop in the private garage beneath my Manhattan penthouse.

She was still sound asleep. I didn't wake her. I opened my door, leaned over, and carefully scooped her into my arms.

She was light, almost weightless. My jacket slipped from her shoulders, revealing the pale, fragile line of her collarbone.

I carried her through the private elevator, straight to the top floor.

Eric followed silently behind me, opening the door to my apartment.

I walked her to the guest room and gently laid her down on the soft, king-sized bed, pulling the duvet over her.

I stood by the bed for a long moment, just looking at her sleeping face. That strange, unsettling pull I'd felt in the alley was now a clear, sharp thrum in my chest.

I turned and left the room, closing the door quietly. Eric was waiting for me.

"Contact my personal physician. I want him here immediately," I ordered. "And get some clothes and other necessities for her."

Eric simply nodded. He never asked questions.

I went to the living room and poured myself a glass of whiskey, downing it in one swallow.

Eleanor Nash.

This time, I wouldn't let you get away.

Eleanor POV:

I woke to the sound of hushed voices. I blinked, my eyes adjusting to the dim light. I was in a bed, a strange bed, but one so comfortable it felt like sinking into a cloud.

The room was a study in understated luxury. A massive floor-to-ceiling window revealed the glittering skyline of Manhattan. I realized with a jolt where I was. This was Alessandro Osborne's home.

I looked down at myself. I was covered by a soft cashmere blanket. My wet, torn dress was gone, replaced by a clean, silk nightgown.

Heat flooded my face. My heart hammered against my ribs. Who changed my clothes?

I pushed myself up, my knee protested. On the nightstand, a glass of water and two painkillers sat waiting.

From beyond the door, I could hear Alessandro Osborne's low, deep voice. He was talking to someone.

Quietly, I slipped out of bed, my bare feet silent on the plush carpet. I tiptoed to the door and pressed my ear against the cool wood.

I heard another man's voice, sharp and laced with a warning.

"Alessandro, I checked. This girl is trouble. She ran away from a marriage her own family sold her into. Sharon Guy traded her to the Stephensons for a capital injection-the merger is the only thing keeping Guy Enterprises from collapse. The Guy and Stephenson families are in an uproar over the business deal. Bringing her here will drag you into a mess you don't need."

I recognized that voice from television. It was Julian Hayes, Alessandro's chief investigator,also an excellent doctor.

Julian wasn't telling Alessandro anything I didn't already know.

Sharon Guy had made it clear the night before the wedding: I was the price for the Stephenson bailout.

My body, my name, my future-all traded for a lifeline. That was the marriage.

That was the deal. And I had run because I refused to be the payment.

Alessandro's voice dropped several degrees. "Are you questioning my decisions?"

Julian seemed to backpedal. "That's not what I mean. I'm worried about your reputation. If the media gets a picture of her walking out of here, God knows what they'll write. They'll call her your latest 'Puck Bunny.' It's bad for your brand, bad for the team's image."

The term 'Puck Bunny' struck me like a slap. My nails dug into my palms. It was a derogatory term for girls who chased after hockey players. I knew that's what I looked like to the outside world-a girl who just happened to appear at his side. The shame was a bitter taste in my mouth.

I heard Alessandro let out a cold, humorless laugh. "My reputation is not for them to define."

Julian pressed on. "But... she's just a normal girl. Getting involved in this won't do her any good either. The best way to handle this is to give her some money, send her somewhere safe. It's what's best for her."

I held my breath, waiting for Alessandro's verdict. Julian was right. It was the "best" and most logical solution. He had no reason to take any risks for a stranger like me.

A heavy silence stretched on. My heartbeat felt like it was going to stop.

Just when I was sure he would agree, I heard his voice, sharp and final. "She's not going anywhere. She stays here."

Julian sounded incredulous. "What? Stays here? Alessandro, are you insane?"

"Julian." Alessandro's voice was now pure command. "Your job is to investigate, not to give me advice. Now, send me the report and leave."

I heard Julian's resentful footsteps fading away.

I leaned against the door, my legs weak. He... was letting me stay? Why?

I heard footsteps approaching my room. Panicked, I scrambled back to the bed, pulled the covers up, and squeezed my eyes shut, pretending to be asleep.

The door opened softly. Alessandro walked in.

He stood by the bed for a moment. I could feel his gaze on me, and I held my breath, my entire body tense.

"I know you're awake," he said, his voice low.

My body stiffened. The act was up. I slowly opened my eyes and met his deep, ice-blue gaze.

His expression was complex, unreadable. He gestured to the nightstand. "You need to rest. You'll stay here for a few days."

It wasn't a suggestion. It was a statement of fact.

I bit my lip. "Why?" I asked, my voice barely a whisper. "We're strangers. You don't have to do this for me."

He stared at me for a few long seconds, then the corner of his mouth curved into a strange, unreadable smile. "Maybe I just don't want to see the Stephensons get what they want."

The reason sounded plausible, but it didn't feel like the whole truth.

"As for changing your clothes and treating your wounds," he added, "my housekeeper did it. You don't need to be nervous."

My face burned even hotter. I was ashamed of my earlier thoughts.

He turned to leave, but paused at the door. He looked back at me. "Get some rest, Eleanor."