Reclaimed By My Siverfox Daddy (Billionaire Pakhan #3)

Chapter 1

Chapter One

Ryan

"Cleo! Stop!"

The leash burned through my palm, searing hot. I could barely hold on. This Afghan hound was built like a small horse, pure muscle and raw power, dragging me down the riverside garden path like a rag doll. My feet couldn't keep up. I stumbled, lurching forward, about to eat pavement.

Cleo's nose hit the ground, sniffing hard. She'd caught a scent. Then she bolted right. The force yanked me clean off my feet. My shoulder slammed into the ground first. Then my knee scraped half a meter across the rough concrete. Fuck, that hurt.

I lay there on the grass, trying to catch my breath. My knee burned. My jeans were torn, blood seeping through.

I was losing it. Blood on my knee, clothes a disaster, strangers gawking like I was free entertainment.

And this was only my first hour on the job.

Welcome to your pathetic new life, Ryan Clark.

But it got worse. Cleo's paw caught my shirt, ripping two buttons clean off.

My shirt flew open. My bra slipped down. Half my chest was out.

I scrambled to cover myself with one hand, the other death-gripping the leash. Cleo circled me, the rope tangling around my calves. I tried to stand. She lunged forward. I crashed back down.

"Goddammit! Cleo! Sit!"

She stuck her tongue out at me. Her tail wagged like a propeller.

People were staring. A middle-aged woman in a gray coat whispered to her friend, eyes glued to my open shirt. Some guy on a bike actually stopped and pulled out his phone.

"Stop looking!" I barked at them. The woman turned away. The cyclist pedaled off slowly. But Cleo kept pulling in the opposite direction. I couldn't use both hands—one holding my shirt closed, the other fighting this out-of-control dog.

I was calculating how to escape without my half-naked self going viral on Instagram when a hand reached down from above. It closed around Cleo's collar, stopping the beast cold.

"Sit."

Cleo sat. The wild animal that had just dragged me across the park now looked like a stuffed toy.

I stared up, stunned. He stood against the light, just a tall silhouette.

Broad shoulders, narrow waist, a perfectly tailored charcoal three-piece suit that looked custom-made.

One hand on the dog's collar, the other casually in his pocket.

Relaxed. Controlled. He turned slightly. I finally saw his face.

Beautiful. Devastatingly beautiful.

Sharp nose, straight as a ruler. Hard jawline, all angles and edges. The kind of bone structure that looked carved, not born. But his eyes—I couldn't look away. Deep gray, cold as winter ice on a frozen lake. He looked down at me. No pity. No mockery. Nothing.

"You're hurt." His voice was low. He unwound the tangled leash from my red fingers and looped it around his own wrist. His gaze paused on my open shirt for a second, then moved away. He unbuttoned his jacket with one hand, slipped it off, and draped it over my shoulders.

A sharp scent hit me, patchouli, heavy and deep, mixed with cold wood notes. The jacket swallowed me whole. It still held his body heat. Warmth seeped into me. My whole body went hot.

"Let me see." He nodded at my knee.

"I'm fine—"

"It's bleeding." He cut me off. "You need first aid."

I wanted to argue. But the pain in my knee killed any fight I had left. Before I could answer, he lifted my pant leg and examined the scrape. Not deep, but the surface area was bad. Dirt and gravel were embedded in the wound.

He frowned. "This needs cleaning. My car's over there."

"No, really, sir, that's too much trouble, I can—"

Before I finished, he stood. The next second, he scooped me up.

"Sir, you really don't have to—" I squirmed, but his arm around my waist locked tight.

My face was ten centimeters from his neck.

Through his open collar, I could see his collarbone, the tight lines of muscle beneath.

The patchouli scent wrapped around me, mixed with his body heat. I turned my face away fast.

He carried me through the garden path. Everyone who'd been watching us earlier stood there with their mouths open.

Before I could process it, he kicked open the back door of his car and set me gently inside. When his arm slid out from behind my waist, his fingertips brushed bare skin at my side. Just a split-second touch. But my back went rigid. A tingling sensation spread from that spot, racing up my spine.

He pulled a black first aid kit from the trunk, crouched outside the car door, and rested my calf on his thigh. He opened the disinfectant. The cotton swab touched my wound. I gasped and tried to pull my leg back. His left hand, wide and warm, pressed my calf down, holding me still.

"Bear with it."

In the afternoon light, his gray irises looked almost transparent. But his pupils were bottomless. My heart skipped.

"You... go easy." I looked away. My voice came out weak.

The corner of his mouth twitched, barely a smile, then disappeared. He bent his head and kept working. He used the cotton swab to pick out every piece of gravel, slow and steady. His hands had calluses. He knew what he was doing.

"Are you a doctor?"

"No."

"Then why do you carry a first aid kit?"

"Habit. Your knee's done." His eyes moved up. "Anywhere else hurt?"

"No."

"You landed on your shoulder first."

He straightened, leaning in. One hand landed on my left shoulder, pressing gently through the fabric. "Does this hurt?"

He was too close. He filled all the space around me. My eyes drifted down against my will, past his open collar, below his collarbone were the tight lines of his chest muscles, and lower, a deep groove of muscle disappeared behind the third button. I could just make out the cut of his abs.

"Um... a little." My voice came out dry and tight. I couldn't tell if I was answering about the pain or about the chaos churning inside me.

His fingertips traced down from my shoulder, following the curve. When he pressed the outer part of my upper arm, real pain shot through me. I sucked in air. His thumb stopped there, pressing and kneading gently.

"Just bruising. Not serious."

Then his other hand slipped under the jacket hem. His fingertips landed on bare skin at my ribs. My whole body went rigid.

"Here?" His fingertips slid up along my ribcage, two inches. Professional. Clinical. No hint of anything else. But my body didn't care. Every inch of skin he touched felt like it had been pressed with a hot iron, heat spreading from each point of contact through my entire body.

"No... doesn't hurt." My voice was barely a whisper.

That spot was close to my chest. But he didn't move higher. His thumb pressed once, lightly, checking the ribs for damage. Then he pulled his hand back. The whole exam took ten seconds. It felt like half a century.

"You're fine. It'll heal in a few days." He stepped back half a step. His voice was gentle.

I sat in the back seat, my breathing still uneven, my face burning.

He reached for my hand, turning it over gently.

A red mark from the leash cut across my palm.

He squeezed out some ointment. His thumb traced the mark slowly, spreading the cream from the base of my palm to my fingers.

My fingers curled involuntarily, brushing his warm palm.

His movement stopped. Without a word, he let go of my hand and capped the ointment.

"Try not to get it wet before tomorrow."

He put the first aid kit back in the trunk and turned to me. "Is this your dog?"

"No, I'm just walking it for someone. The owner lives on the top floor of that building."

He tilted his head slightly, said nothing, and walked over to untie Cleo from the fence.

"I'll help you take the dog back."

"You really don't have to—"

"You can't control it."

Undeniable fact. I followed behind him, deflated.

Cleo was perfectly behaved now, walking quietly at his side.

In the elevator, she sat down without being told.

At the apartment door, I punched in the code, filled Cleo's food and water bowls, checked the utilities and windows, and turned to leave. But he was still standing at the door.

"I'll drive you home."

"No, sir, really, I can take the subway."

"Your knee's torn up, and you're going to squeeze onto the subway?" He leaned against the doorframe. His gray eyes looked serious.

I hesitated. Everything I'd learned told me not to get in cars with strangers. But this man had just stopped a runaway dog, carefully treated my wounds, and given me his jacket.

I nodded slowly. "I really appreciate this."

"Taking a lady home is the right thing to do." He nodded slightly. His tone was calm and straightforward. But my ears burned. My face went red.

"Address?" Once we were in the car, he turned to me.

"Queens. Sunnyside. Fourth Street, next to the Line 7 elevated tracks."

He nodded and said nothing else. I sat in the passenger seat, wrapped in his oversized jacket, suddenly embarrassed—I'd been with him this whole time and didn't even know his name.

I cleared my throat. "Do you... come to the riverside area often?"

"Sometimes."

"So today was just a coincidence?"

"Pretty much."

Silence. Then I spoke softly. "Thank you. If you hadn't been there today, I would've gone home a complete mess."

His eyes moved from the road to my face. Stayed there a moment. "Anyone would've helped."

"No." I thought of all those people standing around with their phones. "Most people would've just filmed it and posted it on TikTok with a caption like 'Walking accident: woman dragged by large dog.'"

He laughed softly. The car turned onto the Queensboro Bridge. Evening light stained the water below a deep gray-blue.

I pulled his jacket tighter. "This jacket... I'll wash it and return it to you."

"Don't worry about it."

"No." I didn't want to owe him. "You helped me so much today. I didn't even buy you a coffee. Give me your contact info so I can... return the jacket."