The Commander's Obsession for His Heiress

1

The roar of the heavily worn black motorcycle engine tore through the quiet night of the Upper East Side.

Jordan Whitley slammed on the brakes. The heavy tires skidded against the pavement, stopping inches from the wrought-iron gates of the Whitley Manor.

Two security guards in crisp black suits immediately stepped forward. Their hands dropped to their belts, fingers wrapping around the grips of their batons.

Jordan killed the engine. She reached up with one hand and pulled off her black full-face helmet.

The cold night air hit her face, revealing her sharp, indifferent eyes and sleek, shoulder-length dark hair.

The older guard squinted under the harsh glow of the streetlamp. He recognized her face. He sucked in a sharp breath and quickly grabbed his younger partner's wrist, stopping him from drawing the weapon.

Jordan didn't even look at them. She hung her helmet on the handlebar and pushed through the half-open side gate.

Her heavy combat boots crunched against the gravel of the manor's main driveway. Each step was rhythmic, heavy, and suffocatingly oppressive.

She reached the massive mahogany double doors and pushed them open, stepping into the luxurious, French-domed foyer.

From the sunken living room ahead, a high-pitched, delicate laugh echoed. Serafina was showing off her jewelry to a group of wealthy socialite friends.

Jordan stopped walking. Her eyes cut through the hallway and locked dead onto Serafina's long, pale neck.

Resting against Serafina's collarbone was a rare pigeon-blood ruby necklace. It belonged to Jordan's dead mother. The red stones flashed with a blinding, offensive light.

Jordan's pupils shrank to pinpricks. A thick, suffocating aura of pure, battlefield-bred murder rolled off her shoulders.

She didn't try to hide her footsteps. She marched straight into the sunken living room, her boots sinking into the expensive Persian rug.

One of the socialites noticed the intruder in the black leather motorcycle jacket first. She let out a loud gasp.

Serafina, holding a bone-china teacup, turned her head. When she saw Jordan's face, the smug smile on her lips froze completely.

Serafina quickly adjusted her expression. She stood up, trying to put on the authoritative air of an elder, ready to scold her stepdaughter.

Jordan didn't give her a chance to open her mouth. Like a cheetah released from a cage, Jordan crossed the fifteen-foot distance in a fraction of a second.

Serafina only saw a blur. Jordan's hand violently slapped the teacup away. It shattered against the marble coffee table.

Boiling black tea splashed onto Serafina's haute couture dress. She let out a piercing shriek.

Jordan's left hand shot out, her fingers clamping down hard on the back of Serafina's neck. She shoved Serafina's upper body face-down onto the cold marble table.

The surrounding women screamed and scattered. Their high heels clattered frantically against the hardwood floor as they ran for the corners of the room.

Serafina thrashed wildly. She tried to claw at Jordan's arm with her manicured nails, but Jordan easily pinned her wrist down with a slight shift of her body weight.

Jordan's right hand slid smoothly to the outside of her thigh. Her fingers brushed her hidden holster. A black tactical folding knife popped into her palm.

With a sharp, mechanical click, the blade locked into place. Jordan pressed the ice-cold steel directly against Serafina's jumping carotid artery.

Serafina felt the sharp sting at her throat. Her pupils dilated in pure terror. Her entire body went stiff, too terrified to move a single muscle.

Jordan leaned down. Her voice was low, raspy, and carried an undeniable threat of death.

"Take it off."

Serafina's lips trembled violently. She tried to use her pregnancy and her husband's name to force Jordan to back down. "I'm pregnant... Harrison will..."

Jordan let out a cold, humorless laugh. She flicked her wrist. The razor-sharp blade easily sliced through a lock of Serafina's blonde hair right next to her ear.

The blonde strands drifted down onto the marble table. Serafina's psychological defenses shattered completely. Hot tears spilled from her eyes.

With violently shaking hands, Serafina reached behind her neck. She clumsily fumbled with the clasp of the ruby necklace until it finally gave way.

Jordan snatched the necklace. The metal was still warm from Serafina's skin. With a flick of her thumb, she popped open a hidden clasp on the back of the heavy ruby setting. Inside rested a microscopic, heavily worn photograph of a frail patient hooked to a maze of hospital ventilators. Her thumb brushed the blurry face with a rare, fleeting gentleness. Hold on just a little longer. I am so close to getting the cure for you, she promised silently in the depths of her mind, locking away her only vulnerability. Jordan clenched it tightly in her fist, but she did not move the knife away from Serafina's throat.

"Jordan! Drop the knife right now!"

A furious, booming roar exploded from the entryway of the living room. Harrison Whitley had arrived.

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