Sheltered By The Ruthless Hockey King

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 Maynards for a capital injection—the merger is the only thing keeping Guy Enterprises from collapse. The Guy and Maynard 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 Maynard 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 Maynards 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."