Chapter 122
Chapter 122:
“If I present this now, Vincent will spin it,” I explained, my voice dropping into a detached, strategic calm. “He’ll claim the footage is circumstantial and the expenses were legitimate client outreach. He’ll paint me as a paranoid, vindictive niece trying to settle a family score p>
I looked at the frozen frame of Sloane’s arrogant smirk on the monitor.
“We wait,” I commanded. “Keep monitoring her accounts. Let her feel untouchable. A leech like Sloane will eventually get greedy and make a mistake in public. We are going to let her walk into her own trap p>
Harvey bowed his head, the respect in his scent unmistakable. “Understood, Luna p>
As he left the office, I turned my gaze to the sprawling Manhattan skyline beyond the window. I had locked my emotions away to deal with Sloane, and I would need that exact same impenetrable armor tonight. Kain was coming to pick me up later. I had to ensure the boundary between us remained absolute — no matter how desperately my foolish heart begged to surrender.
Kain POV
The sunset bled a bruised orange across the Manhattan skyline as I leaned against the charcoal-grey Aston Martin outside The Wolfe Hotel. The human stench of exhaust and cheap perfume assaulted my senses, but I was waiting for only one scent.
When Adelina finally emerged through the glass doors, my chest tightened. She slipped into the passenger seat, and the confined space of the car was instantly filled with the aroma of wild roses. But beneath that intoxicating sweetness ran a sharp, bitter current of absolute terror. She was wearing her armor.
I gripped the leather steering wheel, the engine purring to life. “Adelina, about last night p>
𝖲𝗁𝖺𝗋𝖾 𝗒𝗈𝗎𝗋 𝗍𝗁𝗈𝗎𝗀𝗁𝗍𝗌 𝗈𝗇
“It was the drug,” she cut in, her voice trembling before she forced it into a cold, professional clip. She stared straight ahead, refusing to look at me. “We have a contract, Kain. I need you to respect it. I need to know what is real and what is just business. We should just be friends p>
She is ours. She is real. My Lycan roared and thrashed violently against my ribs. I wanted to pin her to the leather seat, bury my face in her neck, and mark her until she couldn’t even remember the word contract. But looking at her wide, panicked eyes, I knew the truth. If I pushed her now — if I unleashed the full weight of my centuries-old hunger — she would shatter. She would run.
I swallowed the agonizing growl rising in my throat, my knuckles turning stark white against the steering wheel.
“Friends,” I rasped, the word tasting like ash on my tongue.
I offered my hand. She hesitated, then placed her small palm in mine. The violent electric spark that shot up my arm was pure torture — a cruel reminder of the Fated Mate bond she was desperately trying to deny. She pulled her hand back quickly, the wall between us now thicker than ever.
Later that night, the private lounge at the apex of Blackstone Tower was shrouded in shadows. The city lights glittered like a river of diamonds far below the floor-to-ceiling windows.