Chapter 422:
But clearly, he’d underestimated him.
Locked up or not, restrained or not, Alan was a force of nature.
In what felt like the blink of an eye, over an hour had passed. Kristian stared at the man now bouncing on his bed, feeling a chill crawl up his spine.
“Guess you’re not the mystery guy who can match Mina,” Alan declared, glaring down at him from the mattress. “Time to teach you a lesson.”
Kristian reached for his phone to call Freya and ask where she was—only to remember, with a twitch of irritation, that Alan had shattered it earlier.
Alan, fists clenched, charged at him with wild determination.
He took one step—then tripped and crashed onto the bed.
Kristian didn’t waste a second. He yanked the blanket over Alan, wrapped him tight, and tied it off like a burrito.
Only Alan’s head stuck out, eyes wide with alarm. “Kristian, if you lay a finger on me, my friends won’t let you off the hook!”
“I’ll be waiting,” Kristian said coolly, his voice like ice.
For a sliver of peace, he grabbed a towel and stuffed it into Alan’s mouth.
Alan squirmed and struggled, but he couldn’t move or speak.
“You’re staying right here,” Kristian muttered. After searching around, he finally found some rope and tied the blanket securely in place. “You’ll be free when Freya shows up.”
Alan looked completely panicked.
Kristian turned to leave, heading off to find his iPad so he could message Gerard and ask him to bring over a new phone.
Meanwhile, Alan wriggled and twisted like a worm, finally managing to roll himself off the bed and onto the floor. Luckily, he was still too drunk to feel the impact.
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Kristian’s brow tightened just a bit, a shadow of irritation crossing his face. Why was Alan so full of energy after getting drunk?
He crouched and tugged the towel from Alan’s mouth, his every move laced with an arctic chill. “What is it now?”
“I have to pee!” Alan burst out, desperation clinging to every syllable.
Kristian cast a glance at the rope he’d painstakingly tracked down earlier, inwardly groaning at the thought of untying it.
After silently repeating to himself that this buffoon was Freya’s cousin, he finally gave in and loosened the knots, freeing Alan from the blanket.
Alan bolted toward the bathroom like a man possessed.
Kristian remained standing there, his expression unreadable, brows drawn tightly together. He found it nearly impossible to align this disheveled mess of a man with the usually sharp, polished president of the Briggs Group. Was Alan always this childish?
As those thoughts circled in Kristian’s mind, the sound of the doorbell pierced the silence.
The tension in Kristian’s shoulders eased ever so slightly as he headed over, assuming it must be Freya.
But the second he opened the door, a sharp voice, laced with irritation, cut through the night. “Seriously, what’s going on in there? It’s the middle of the night—”
The words stopped dead the moment the man caught sight of Kristian’s face and the sheer, commanding force he radiated.
That didn’t even begin to cover it.
“Is there a problem?” Kristian asked coolly, his voice low and detached, his lips barely moving.
Clad in a tailored suit and standing like he owned the world, he looked every inch the composed, no-nonsense corporate giant.
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.
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