Chapter 4 - The Unraveling of the Ice King
When Chloe finally blinked her eyes open the next morning, the winter sun was struggling to pierce through the heavy gray frost on the windows.
Her first conscious sensation was warmth—a deep, enveloping heat that felt entirely foreign after hours of freezing shivers. Her second sensation was the horrifying realization that her right foot was pressed directly against something solid, warm, and distinctly masculine.
Her eyes snapped wide open.
She stared horizontally across the bed.
Victor Russo was lying right beside her.
He wasn't asleep anymore. He was wide awake, resting his head on one hand, propped up on his elbow, staring down at her with an unreadable, intense expression in his dark eyes.
Chloe froze. For a terrifying second, her heart stopped beating entirely.
Then, she screamed.
It wasn't a cinematic, blood-curdling shriek. It was more like the strangled, high-pitched squeak of a small animal whose soul had briefly left its body through its nostrils.
She scrambled backward in a frantic panic, her heels tangling in the heavy comforter as she tried to put as much distance between herself and the head of the Chicago underworld as humanly possible.
“Oh my God,” she choked out, her voice cracking violently from her throat infection. “Oh my God, oh my God, oh my God—”
Victor raised a single, dark eyebrow, not moving an inch from his relaxed posture.
“You said that,” he noted smoothly, his deep voice rich with a dry, ironic amusement.
“I’m sorry!” Chloe babbled, her hands flying to her mouth as tears of sheer terror pricked the corners of her eyes. “I’m so, so sorry, Mr. Russo, I didn’t mean to—I blacked out—I was changing the sheets and I felt dizzy and I just sat down for a second and—”
“I heard that too,” he interrupted, cutting off her panicked monologue with a calm wave of his hand.
“I fell asleep,” she whispered miserably, closing her eyes as she braced for the inevitable explosion.
“I noticed.”
“I didn’t mean to trespass in your bed, I swear on my life, please don’t fire me, please—my brother—” She stopped abruptly, biting her lower lip until it bled, realizing she was rambling herself into a deeper grave.
Victor stared at her for a long moment, taking in her flushed skin, her ragged breathing, and the absolute panic radiating from her every pore.
“Obviously,” he deadpanned.
Before she could form another coherent sentence, Chloe threw her legs over the side of the bed and jumped up—a movement that proved to be a catastrophic tactical error.
The room spun violently back to life. Her legs turned to jelly, her vision tunneled into a pinhole of white light, and she pitched forward toward the hardwood floor like a felled tree.
Before she could hit the ground, a strong, warm hand caught her firmly by the elbow.
The physical contact made them both instantly freeze.
Chloe stared down at the large, powerful hand wrapped around her arm. It was the same hand that signed multi-million-dollar shipping contracts and, according to downtown rumors, ordered hits on rival syndicate leaders. Right now, it was holding her upright so she wouldn't crack her head open on a Persian rug.
Victor released her grip the exact second she stabilized, pulling his hand back as if he had been burned.
“I’m fired,” Chloe whispered, her voice hollow as she gripped the bedpost for support.
“No,” Victor said simply.
She blinked, her feverish brain struggling to process the monosyllabic response.
“What?”
“You have a fever,” he stated matter-of-factly, swinging his legs over the side of the bed and standing up.
“I’m fine,” she lied automatically, swaying like a reed in a hurricane while standing completely still. “I can still work. I’ll finish the laundry right now, I promise—”
“You’re swaying while standing still, Bennett,” Victor cut across her with an air of absolute finality. “That isn't admiration for my interior decorating. That’s a body collapsing from exhaustion and infection.”
She looked at him suspiciously, her eyes narrowing as she tried to regain her dignity.
Victor turned around to face her fully, and for the first time, Chloe actually looked at him without the filter of estate terror. He was significantly taller than she had remembered, broad-shouldered and imposing, with dark hair delightfully disordered by sleep and a white dress shirt wrinkled at the cuffs and collar.
He looked... human.
That realization disturbed her far more than his terrifying reputation ever could. In all her weeks at the estate, she had never once considered Victor Russo an actual human being capable of sleep, wrinkles, or casual movement. He had always been a myth, a shadow in a tailored suit.
Without another word, Victor walked over to a sleek mahogany wet bar tucked into the corner of the suite, poured a glass of chilled water from a crystal bottle, and walked back over, holding it out toward her.
Chloe stared at the glass like it was a live rattlesnake.
Victor let out a long, slow sigh, his expression tightening with a mix of exasperation and quiet patience.
“If I intended to kill you, Bennett,” he said dryly, “poisoning your water would be embarrassingly theatrical. Just drink the damn water.”
A hot wave of humiliation rushed into her cheeks, turning her pale skin bright crimson. With a trembling hand, she reached out, took the glass, and drank deeply, the cold liquid soothing her scorched throat.
She lowered the glass, wiping her mouth with the back of her sleeve, and looked up at him with defiant confusion.
“Why didn’t you wake me?” she asked quietly.
May you like
Victor stared at her for a long, unreadable beat, the morning light catching the sharp angles of his jawline.
“Because,” he said softly, turning away to retrieve his suit jacket from the chair, “for the first time in six years, the silence in this room didn't feel quite so loud.”
