Sinful Heir (The Heirs 6)

Panic floods my veins, sending my heartbeat into overdrive. My mind begins to race with ways I can get him off me.

Dropping my clutch, I bring my hands up and try to push him away from me. I’m instantly filled with disgust from having to touch him. “Get away from me!” My shriek is muted by his large size smothering me.

His right hand begins to claw at my breasts, his touch sloppy and greedy, and it fills me with shame and revulsion. His mouth slobbers up my neck, making the bitter taste of bile push up my throat.

My stomach lurches, and I push at him with all my strength, but he doesn’t budge. “Move,” I cry, but it’s again muted by his body.

He begins to rub against me, squashing me painfully hard against the rough wall. A suffocating feeling tightens my chest.

“Just a kiss.” He puckers his gross lips, and I instantly try to yank my face away from his reach, banging my head hard against the wall. It’s like I’m trying to fight a mountain of fat that weighs a ton.

His alcohol-drenched spit coats my jaw with slime. The stench makes it hard to breathe, and my eyes water.

Feeling his slimy tongue lick at the corner of my mouth and his meaty hand clawing at my thigh as he tries to get between my legs, I let out a muffled shriek.

Desperately, I squeeze down and manage to worm myself past layers of fat. Dropping to the floor, I crawl through the small opening between his large legs until I’m a distance away. Shooting to my feet, I watch as he slides down the wall until he tumbles onto the tiles, and then I hear him whine, “He destroyed me… He took everything… Because of you.”

I dart back and grab my clutch. I tremble violently as I wipe the back of my hand over my mouth and jaw, and again bile pushes up my throat as I feel the revolting spit sticking to my skin. I try to straighten my hair and regain control over my rampant heartbeat and breaths as I rush away from the hallway.

Only when I’m a safe distance from the drunk man does the shock of what just happened hit. I gasp, and placing my hand over my stomach, I try to breathe through the wave of disgust.

Feeling filthy, I know I can’t let Tristan see me like this. I rush to the entrance, and with a quivering voice, I ask the valet to arrange a ride for me.

My eyes keep darting between the lobby and the road, praying my ride will arrive before Tristan comes to look for me.

The valet gives me a concerned look. “Are you okay, Ma’am?”

I nod, my movements’ jittery. “Just feeling sick.”

A car pulls up to the curb, and the valet opens the backdoor, gesturing for me to climb in.

Only once the driver pulls away from the country club do I dig my phone out, and with trembling fingers, I type a quick message to Tristan so he won’t worry.

H: I think I ate something that was off. I arranged a ride home. Good luck with the meetings. xox

TRISTAN

My phone vibrates, drawing my attention away from Mr. Yinglin.

Pulling the device out of my pocket, I frown when I see it’s from Hana. Opening the text, my frown darkens.

What the fuck?

“Excuse me,” I mutter. I walk out of the hall and press dial on Hana’s number.

It takes longer than usual for her to answer. “Hi.”

“You’re sick?” I ask.

“Yes. Nausea.”

“Are you going back to the dorm?” I ask as I walk to the exit.

“Yes. I’m just going to sleep it off.”

“I’m right behind you,” I say as I step up to the valet.

“No!” My head snaps back at the sharpness in her voice. I hear her take a breath, then she continues with a softer tone, “Don’t worry, Tristan. I’ll be fine. I’m just going to sleep. I’ll call you when I wake up.”

I shake my head hard. “No, Hana. You should see a doctor.”

My car pulls up to the curb, and I watch as the valet gets out.

“I’m not that sick,” she argues. “I’m already starting to feel better.”

I can hear something’s wrong. “I. Will. See. You. Now.”

Cutting the call, I grab the key from the valet and slide in behind the wheel.

Seconds later, my phone vibrates.

H: Your place then.

I steer the Maybach in the direction of my penthouse. As I pull into the underground parking, my phone begins to ring.

“Yes,” I growl into the speaker.

“Miss Cutler is here, Sir.” The concierge advises me. “Should I send her up?”

“Yes.”

I cut the call and stalk to the elevator and press the button. Impatiently, I watch as the numbers count down from the first floor, and when the doors open, I’m met with Hana squeezed into the corner, her arms wrapped tightly around her waist.