Chapter 170
Chapter 170:
The suffocating, sour stench of stale cigars and rotting terror hit my senses a split second before Vincent Parrish grabbed Leo’s arm. “Give me that camera, boy!” Vincent snarled, his face a mottled, desperate red.
“Hey! Let go!” Leo shouted, yanking at his arm.
I didn’t hesitate. I closed the distance in seconds and stepped directly between the young Beta and my disgraced step-uncle, shoving Vincent backward with a force that surprised even me.
“Touch him,” I growled, my dormant wild rose scent blooming into a heavy, suffocating wall of absolute authority, “and my Warriors will drag you to the cells for assaulting an ally of this Pack. I will declare you a traitor p>
Vincent stumbled, his Inner Wolf cowering instinctively, but his panic made him reckless. “You are ruining this Pack!” he spat, pointing a trembling finger at me. “A wolfless Omega playing dress-up! You’re destroying our reputation p>
“I am destroying the rot,” I fired back, my voice echoing off the portraits of my ancestors lining the walls. “You ruined our reputation the second you faked an emergency mind-link to breach the Alpha’s Vault p>
Vincent’s face drained of all color. He opened his mouth, but no words came out.
“As the heir to the Wolfe bloodline and the acting Alpha of the Silvermoon Pack,” I declared, my tone ringing with undeniable Pack law, “I banish you. You are stripped of your title and exiled from these grounds p>
“You can’t!” Vincent shrieked, his eyes wide with horror. “I own shares in this hotel p>
T𝗁e 𝖻eѕ𝘁 𝘳𝘦𝘢𝘥𝗶𝘯g e𝘹𝗽е𝗿іeոсe 𝗈𝗻 𝗀𝖺𝗅ո𝗼𝗏е𝗅s.𝗰о𝗺
“Non-voting shares,” I corrected coldly. I looked past him to the two Warriors who had just rushed out of the stairwell. “Get him out of my sight p>
Vincent thrashed and screamed as the Warriors grabbed his arms and dragged him toward the freight elevators. He was one step away from becoming a Rogue, and I felt absolutely no pity.
I turned to Leo, who was staring at me with wide-eyed respect. “Thank you, Leo. You just saved my Pack p>
Minutes later, the heavy mahogany doors of my office were locked. I sat behind my desk and plugged Leo’s camera into my laptop. The thermal video played across the screen.
It was timestamped 8:20 PM — five minutes after Zack Rutledge had claimed his Stradivarius was smashed.
A glowing thermal signature shaped like a werewolf emerged from the service stairwell. It was Zack. In his hands, he carried a pitch-black rectangle — a violin case that emitted absolutely zero heat, proving it had just been brought in from the cold outside.
Zack approached a second thermal signature hiding in the shadows — a woman dressed in a maid’s uniform. He handed her the cold case, and she handed him a thick envelope that glowed bright orange with the residual warmth of her body temperature.