Chapter 451
Chapter 451:
At this very moment, he and his last few loyal Warriors were surrounding the isolated glass igloo I had built for my Queen, their weapons dripping with lethal silver. He believed his ambush was flawless — that he held the blade of justice, poised to reclaim the Mate he had so foolishly thrown away.
He didn’t realize that every breath he took, every frantic heartbeat of his vengeful Inner Wolf, was being live-streamed directly to my Shadow Network.
In my pocket, my encrypted satellite phone delivered a single, silent pulse.
I pulled it out. The screen cast a harsh glare across my scarred knuckles as the final confirmation from my intelligence division glowed in stark white text: Target has entered the designated hunting zone. Silver weapons confirmed. Awaiting final protocol.
My Lycan Inner Wolf didn’t roar. He didn’t even bare his teeth. There was only a cold, absolute apathy. Jase was nothing but a moth hurling itself into a flame I had lit specifically for him.
Reаd t𝘩e 𝗅𝖺𝗍еs𝘁 𝗍𝗿e𝘯𝖽𝗌 on
I closed my eyes and bypassed the standard Pack channels, forging a heavily encrypted, untraceable Mind-Link directly to the snow-covered valley below. My Beta was already there, waiting in the freezing shadows.
Activate Protocol White Wolf, I transmitted, my mental voice a freezing, merciless rumble that left no room for error. Confirm target acquisition. Leave no trace. I want the valley silent by the time we land.
Fletcher Banks responded instantaneously, his reply dripping with the lethal efficiency of the Blackstone Pack.
Confirmed, my King. The snow will be their grave.
I severed the connection, wiping every digital and mental trace of the execution order from existence. The trap was sprung. Jase Davenport was about to be erased from the earth, buried beneath the Arctic ice before he even realized he was the prey.
I turned my gaze back to my beautiful, sleeping Mate. My large hand reached out, gently brushing a stray curl from her warm cheek. I had promised her a perfect, isolated sanctuary beneath the northern lights. By the time her boots touched the snow, the only thing waiting for her would be absolute, unbroken silence.
Carmella POV
The afternoon sun streaming into Grant’s Georgetown townhouse felt less like warmth and more like a spotlight on an execution block. I stood by the mahogany bar, staring blindly at the Persian rug beneath my feet, my heart pounding a frantic, erratic rhythm.
When the front door finally opened, Grant stepped into the living room. His signature sandalwood and whiskey scent preceded him, but today he had deliberately laced it with the bitter tang of exhaustion and defeat. It was a masterful performance.
“My father knows,” Grant said, his voice heavy as he loosened his tie.
He proceeded to recount his morning meeting with feigned reluctance, though I now knew it was nothing but the final, triumphant move in his sick game. He painted a vivid picture of Almon Blackwell’s oak-paneled study at the Blackstone Estate — describing how the ancient Lycan Elder had slammed a copy of The Howl onto the desk. The tabloid’s cover featured a stolen photo of Jaxon and me, plastered with the headline: Senator Blackwell’s Mystery Wolfless Woman and His Hidden Pup?