Chapter 417
Chapter 417:
Preston Pierce stepped closer. His aggressive Alpha scent — stormy sea and expensive leather — flooded the cramped space like an invisible net tightening around my throat. The single amber bulb above the leather sofa cast harsh, unforgiving shadows across his sharp jawline.
“Stay back,” I growled, my Lycan aura flaring in a desperate attempt to push him away. “I’m straight, Pierce. Whatever happened three nights ago was the bourbon. It meant absolutely nothing p>
Preston let out a dark, mocking chuckle. He closed the distance with terrifying Alpha speed, grabbed my lapels, and slammed me hard against the cold velvet wall panels.
“Is that what you tell yourself, Carter?” he murmured, his breath ghosting over my lips. “Because I remember a very proud Lycan begging me not to stop. I remember the exact sound you made when I p>
“Shut up!” I snarled, struggling against his iron grip.
But my Inner Wolf betrayed me. Instead of ripping his throat out, my beast let out a confused, pathetic whine at the forbidden, deeply familiar proximity.
Preston didn’t give me another second to deny it. He crashed his mouth down on mine.
The moment our lips met, a violent, agonizing jolt of electricity ripped through my veins. It was a blinding touch-spark — identical to the sacred Recognition Ritual I had only ever heard mated wolves describe. My body reacted instantly, shamefully melting against his solid frame. My Lycan roared in my skull, a chaotic frenzy of absolute betrayal and uncontrollable desire.
The sheer self-loathing of my own submission snapped my sanity.
Driven by pure, panicked instinct, I clamped my teeth down hard on his lower lip.
Preston grunted, his grip loosening for a fraction of a second as the warm, metallic taste of Alpha blood flooded my mouth. I shoved him backward with all my Lycan strength. He stumbled against the leather sofa. I didn’t look back. I ripped the deadbolt open, crashed through the heavy door, and sprinted down the dark hallway like a hunted animal.
𝘕е𝘸 𝘄𝗲𝘦𝘬𝗅𝘺 c𝗁аpt𝖾𝗿s о𝗻
Minutes later, I threw myself into the driver’s seat of my midnight-blue Aston Martin parked on the empty street.
I gripped the freezing leather steering wheel, my chest heaving as I gasped for air. I wiped the back of my hand across my mouth, smearing Preston’s blood across my skin. The coppery scent grounded me. The humiliating panic that had suffocated me in that club rapidly evaporated, replaced by a glacial, calculated fury.
I am a Lycan. I am a top predator on Wall Street. I do not cower.
I reached into the center console and pulled out a heavy, encrypted satellite phone. I dialed a secure, untraceable number connecting directly to The Archive — an underground intelligence network that handled the darkest secrets of the ancient Packs.
It rang twice before a distorted voice answered. “Target p>
“Preston Pierce,” I ordered, my voice a raw, lethal rasp. “I want everything. His Pack’s financials, his bloodline challenges, every secret lover, every skeleton in his closet. Burn his world to the ground p>