His to Protect
Description
I've spent a year hiding my shameful crush on Hugh Kane-my father's business partner, a man twice my age who looks at me like I'm something dangerous. He's cold, controlled, and completely off-limits. But on the night of my nineteenth birthday, something inside me awakens. A burning need I can't explain. A pull toward the one man I can never have.
Chapter 1
Feb 12, 2026
[Claire’s POV]
Even I would fuck myself. I think.
At least, that's the effect I'm going for.
Three days until I turn nineteen, and I'm standing in front of my mirror having a full-blown existential crisis over whether this dress makes me look sophisticated or like I'm playing dress-up in my mother's closet.
Spoiler alert: it's definitely the latter, but I'm committed now.
Worse than that only the fact that my body has apparently decided to stage a full-scale rebellion.
I've been burning up for a week, breaking out in random sweats that have nothing to do with the California heat wave. My skin feels too tight, like I'm wearing a bodysuit two sizes too small, and every fabric seems to irritate me.
Even my favorite silk sheets feel like sandpaper.
But it doesn’t matter now, Hugh's here.
Well, he was here earlier, but I was conveniently out preparing to face him.
Getting my hair done before spending several hours selecting the perfect dress. Reapplying my shadows four times, because the first attempts made me look either like a startled raccoon or a sleepy panda. With no acceptable middle ground.
All this for my father's business partner. A man twice older than me but less handsome because of that. A man who's been the star of my inappropriate daydreams for at least a year now.
I'm aware this makes me a walking cliché. I'm also aware I don't care.
I give myself one last look in the mirror, smooth down the navy dress, and head downstairs. The smell of dinner wafts through the house—Mrs. Walker has outdone herself with her famous lobster risotto. Which means Dad's in full host mode.
"Claire!" "Claire!" Dad's voice echoes through our estate, approximately from the dining room. "Would you mind fetching Hugh? He's in the guest room on the third floor for now. Dinner's ready."
Would I mind? Oh, dear Dad… If only you knew.
"Of course," I say, aiming for casual and probably landing somewhere near manically cheerful.
I climb the stairs, mentally rehearsing normal human behavior. Knock. Wait. Deliver the message. Do not stare. Do not drool. Do not make it weird.
The door of his temporary room is slightly ajar, but I knock anyway because I was raised with manners. Even if my thoughts toward this man are decidedly unmannerly.
"Hugh? Dinner is…" No response.
I push the door open wider, stepping inside cautiously. The room is empty—his leather duffel bag open on the bed, clothes laid out with precision, and I glance toward the bathroom.
The door's cracked open, but it's silent. No running water, no movement.
I should leave. This is clearly a private space.
Instead, I find myself drifting deeper into the room, my fingers trailing across his suitcase. His cologne sits on the dresser. A book on the nightstand—something about economic theory that makes me smile because of course he reads for fun.
Then I see it. His shirt, draped over the chair by the window. That dark grey button-down he wore last time. The one that stretched deliciously at his chest when he took a deep breath.
Before my brain can engage with what my body's doing, I've crossed the room and picked it up. The scent hits me immediately—cedar and something darker, something I can't quite name but that makes my skin feel too tight and my thoughts fuzzy.
I breathe it in deeper, eyes closed, and honestly? Worth it.
The warmth registers first. Body heat radiating against my back, close enough that I can feel it through my dress. Then a deep inhale near my neck—someone breathing me in the same way I'm breathing in this shirt.
"Find what you're looking for?"
My heart nearly stops and when I spin around, he's right there—inches away, so close I have to tilt my head back to meet his eyes.
How did I not hear him?
How did a man that size move so quietly? What is he, part ninja?
Hugh towers over me, all six and a half feet of billionaire perfection. His dark hair is damp, pushed back from a face that belongs on ancient sculptures—sharp jaw, straight nose, cheekbones that could cut glass. Silver threads at his temples only make him more devastating.
Water still beads on his broad shoulders, trailing down the muscled planes of his chest and relief of his hard abs.
He's wearing nothing but a towel slung dangerously low on his hips, and I'm pretty sure my ovaries just signed their own death certificates
"I… Dinner. Dad sent me to…" My brain has apparently decided to take a vacation. "Dinner is ready."
He doesn't step back. Those steel-gray eyes drop to the shirt pressed against my chest, then slowly—so slowly—drag back up to my face. The intensity in his gaze makes my breath catch.
"You're in my room." His voice is rough, almost a growl. "Holding my clothes."
"I was just—" I swallowed hard. "You weren't answering."
"So you decided to help yourself?"
Heat floods my cheeks. "I should probably go."
But I don't move. Can't move. He's standing so close that if I breathed too deeply, my chest would brush against his.
"That’s not an answer to my question." He leans in slightly then, and I catch his scent again—cedar and something wild underneath that makes my coherent thoughts disappear completely. "Did you change your perfume? You smell…"
He stops himself, jaw tightening. "I smell… what?"
His eyes flash with something that looks almost like pain and hunger. Or maybe it’s just my horny imagination. "Different."
The word hangs between us, charged with meaning I don't understand.
"Different how?" I whisper.
His gaze drops to my lips. "Like you're..." Another pause, another internal war. But it’s just for a heartbeat before he wrenches it away. "Doesn’t matter."
"Dinner's ready," I manage again, my voice embarrassingly breathless. "You should probably… put on clothes."
"Probably." But he still doesn't move.
The air feels thick and electric, and my pulse is pounding so hard I'm certain he can hear it. His chest rises and falls with controlled deep breaths, like he's fighting something.
"The shirt." His voice drops lower. "You can let go now."
I look down, realizing I'm still clutching it against my body like a shield. When I release it, our fingers brush and the contact sends a jolt through me that's entirely disproportionate to the touch.
"Sorry," I whisper.
"Don't be." The words come out strained before he steps back, putting distance between us, and the spell shatters. "Tell your father I'll be down in five minutes."
I flee, there's no other word for it. Practically run from the room, and I don't stop until I'm safely back downstairs, pressing my hands to my burning cheeks.
Dinner is torture. Beautiful, excruciating torture.
Dad is in rare form tonight—warmer than usual, almost affectionate in his restrained way while discussing my birthday party with genuine enthusiasm. Though "enthusiasm" for multi-billionaire Richard Winters means detailed logistics rather than actual emotion.
It would be sweet if it weren't so controlling. And if the man sitting across from me weren't making it impossible to focus on anything except the memory of water droplets on his bare skin.
"So, Hugh," I say, "how was London?"
He glances up, and for a second, our eyes meet. Then he looks away, jaw tight. "Productive. The meetings went well."
"What's it like this time of year?"
"Cold. Rainy." There's the ghost of a smile. "You'd probably enjoy it. Very atmospheric."
It's polite and perfectly pleasant. But there's a wall between us now, like he's carefully measuring each word. Dad jumps in with a story about his own trip to London, and Hugh engages easily enough this time.
He’s clearly more comfortable in conversation with his old friend and business partner than with his young silly daughter.
Well, shit.
When I try to ask another question, to test my theory, Hugh's response is brief before he redirects the conversation back to Dad. Not rude, just distant. Carefully, deliberately distant.
And yet I catch him watching me when he thinks I'm focused on my plate. Brief, unguarded moments before he wrenches his gaze away. The contradiction is maddening—the distance in his words versus the intensity in his eyes.
After the main course, I excuse myself to make tea, and when I return, voices drift from Dad's study nearby. Raised voices. Which is shocking, because Hugh never raises his voice. Ever.
I shouldn't eavesdrop, I know that, I was raised better than that and whatever.
I do it anyway.
"—too dangerous, Richard." Hugh's voice cuts through the door, sharp and angry. "You can't keep her in the dark about this!"
"Claire doesn't need to know anything until after—"
Then sudden silence, the kind that means they've heard something. Or someone. That alone is a clear message for me and I hurry away before they open the door, my pulse racing.
What don't they want me to know? What's dangerous?
Don't I already have a full picture of what's going on with my life?
His to Protect
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