A low, respectful voice followed us through the dim parking ground. Felicia's scent lingered at the edge of my senses as she spoke carefully. "President Presgrave, please take care of Miss Tillman."
"Leave her to me," I answered in a low tone, final as an Alpha's claim.
I didn't wait for another reply. I opened the driver's seat and slid inside, my grip already anchored to control, instinct settling into place like a bond refusing to loosen.
Behind me, I could feel Felicia's relief—and something else. She knew. She had seen enough to understand who was responsible for the state Anastasia was in.
The car door shut.
The engine came alive.
And the world outside began to move.
In the backseat, Anastasia stirred, barely conscious, mistaking the space around her. Her hand pressed weakly against her temple as if trying to silence the pounding inside her skull.
"Felicia… take me to any nearby hotel," she murmured, voice fractured by alcohol and exhaustion. "I don't want to go home."
