I Belong To My Three Forbidden Masters

Chapter 117: Chapter 117

Lysander’s pov

"I want to buy clothes,"

That was the first thing I said to Drake the minute he opened his eyes in the morning. I woke up earlier and just kind of waited for him.

I was showered and dressed. I don’t really need new clothes but I have always wanted the experience of going shopping with a boyfriend.

"Okay," Drake shrugged.

"I know you want to say no but listen to me..." I trailed off when I realized his response was positive.

I stared at him and he was already smiling, "I already said yes, little bird. Let me go get ready." He got up from the bed and went to the bathroom.

I pumped my fist in the air and said a silent ’yeah,’. I thought I was going to grovel or something even better, seduce him.

But whatever, I am going shopping!!!!

...

I leaned my back against the glass pane, watching the sparkling tide recede.

Down below, high-fashion mannequins in tailored Italian silks lined the marble concourses, their minimalist displays illuminated by warm recessed spotlights.

Beside me, Drake stood with his hands loosely tucked into the pockets of his dark trousers. He had traded his usual three-piece suits for a dark, open-collared linen shirt, though the imposing breadth of his shoulders still drew subtle glances from every shopkeeper we passed.

"You haven’t picked out a single thing, little bird," he murmured softly.

His eyes turned toward me, a faint curve touching his lips. "I brought you here to buy whatever catches your eye, paints, canvases, clothes. Yet your hands are still empty."

I smiled, stepping closer to him as the elevator doors slid open with a soft chime. "Because you keep trying to buy the entire store, Drake. I just wanted a few soft sketchbooks and some charcoal pencils. Then a lot of clothes."

"If you want sketchbooks, we will take the entire artisan line," Drake purred, his large, warm hand settling over the small of my back, guiding me gently out into the quiet side of the upper-tier gallery.

The store was nearly empty.

We walked deeper into the gallery, past rows of handcrafted leather jackets and bespoke cashmere knits. Drake paused near a rack of tailored coats, holding up a deep charcoal wool overcoat against my shoulders to judge the fit.

As I looked at my reflection in the full-length mirror, a sudden, icy prickle flared across the back of my neck.

My breath caught. The hair on my arms stood on end.

I turned my head slightly, my eyes scanning the aisle behind us. The store was still, bathed in soft gold light. Thirty feet away, near a display of leather goods, a tall man in a dark cap and an oversized canvas jacket stood with his back turned, pretending to examine a briefcase.

There was nothing overtly suspicious about him, but I felt an alarmingly suspicious hum inside me. The man’s posture was too rigid. His weight was balanced on the balls of his feet, ready to spring.

"Lysander?" Drake’s voice broke through my thoughts. He was holding out a cream-colored silk shirt, his dark brows pulled together in a quiet query. "Does this suit your taste?"

I blinked, swallowing the sudden lump in my throat. I forced a small, reassuring smile to my lips and nodded. "Yes. It’s... it’s lovely, Drake."

Don’t ruin this, I told myself, clutching the edge of the display rack. This is your dream. Your honeymoon. Drake has been fighting for you, don’t make him pull out a blade over a paranoid shadow.

"I’m going to look at the art paper in the back section," I murmured softly, gesturing toward a quiet archway near the rear of the boutique that led into the specialty stationery room. "Give me five minutes?"

Drake looked at me for a long, quiet beat, his garnet eyes searching my face with intense, razor-sharp focus. For a second, I thought he felt the tension in my chest through our bond, but he simply reached out, his thumb gently brushing a stray lock of golden hair behind my ear.

"Five minutes, little bird," Drake promised, his low voice softening. "I will have the manager box these coats."

I turned and walked away, stepping beneath the grand archway into the rear gallery.

The noise from the main showroom faded into complete silence. The specialty paper room was a quiet, narrow corridor lined with floor-to-ceiling wooden alcoves filled with imported vellum, watercolor blocks, and jars of raw pigment. A single glass skylight illuminated the center of the room, casting long, dramatic shadows into the corners.

I picked up a heavy, deckle-edged sketchbook from a shelf, my fingers trembling slightly as I flipped through the textured pages.

Crunch.

The faint sound of rubber soles scraping against the polished stone floor echoed from the entrance.

My heart slammed against my ribs like a trapped bird. I stilled, my thumb freezing on the edge of the paper.

My body unfroze itself and I slowly turned on my heel, stepping deeper into the narrow aisle between two tall wooden display cases, my pulse hammering a frantic, deafening rhythm in my ears.

"Is someone there?" I asked, forcing my voice to sound firm, though it cracked slightly on the last word.

I didn’t get an answer.

I looked around, hoping for a shop assistant to come around this area but I was alone.

I took three steps backward, edging towards the emergency door at the far end of the corridor. My fingers reached into my pocket, gripping my phone, my knuckles turning stark white. Just get to the door. Just see who it is before you panic Drake for nothing.

I rounded the corner of the last display case—

A heavy, gloved hand shot out from the dark beside the exit.

Before I could draw a single breath to scream, the hand clamped viciously over my mouth and nose. The brutal, iron grip slammed my back hard against the concrete pillar, knocking the air clean out of my lungs. My sketchbook clattered loudly against the floor, pages fluttering open.

"Quiet, slut," a harsh, rasping voice growled inches from my ear, smelling of stale tobacco and cold rain.

My eyes widened slightly and I tried to scream but the sound was muffled from the hand on my mouth.

I thrashed violently, driving my elbow back into his ribs with all the strength I had, but the attacker didn’t even flinch. He was massive, built like a brick wall, wearing a rig beneath his dark jacket.

A silver glint flashed in the dim skylight as he raised a heavy, reinforced syringe fitted with a thick, dark needle.

"Thorne paid fifty million for your live retrieval, but if you resist, I would surely hurt you."

I struggled even more but the man snarled, his thumb pressing down on the plunger as he drove the steel needle straight toward the bare skin of my neck. "Don’t make me break your legs first."

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