Chapter 411
Chapter 411:
I opened my mouth to protest, to tell him I needed to stay with the blank stone, but Jaxon’s small hand slipped into mine.
“I’m freezing, Auntie Carmella,” Jaxon murmured, looking up at me with those big, pleading eyes that mirrored his father’s. “Can we go get hot pancakes? Please p>
My logic completely short-circuited. Between the physical weight of Grant’s coat, the psychological pressure of his Lycan command, and the desperate, maternal need to keep Jaxon warm, my defenses crumbled into dust.
I gave a slow, defeated nod.
Grant’s hand moved to the small of my back, a firm, guiding pressure through the cashmere. I didn’t look back at the weeping angel. I let them lead me out of the graveyard, straight toward the idling engine of his armored Cadillac SUV waiting in the mist.
Carmella POV
The interior of Grant’s armored Cadillac SUV was a silent, leather-scented fortress. I sat in the back, drowning in the heavy folds of his black cashmere overcoat. The suffocating, undeniable scent of rosemary and rain wrapped around me — a constant reminder of the Lycan who had just dragged me away from my child’s unmarked grave.
Jaxon pressed tightly against my side. He pulled out an iPad Pro covered in Pack totem stickers, his small brow furrowed in frustration.
“I can’t get the load-bearing code right,” Jaxon mumbled, tilting the glowing screen toward me.
It was a 3D modeling project for school — a complex rendering of ancient Pack territory fortifications. My soul felt like a hollowed-out shell, entirely numb to the outside world, but the CFO in me — the part of my brain permanently wired for logic and systems — couldn’t ignore the glaring error in the digital architecture.
𝖱𝗈m𝘢𝗻ce 𝗇о𝘃е𝗹s 𝘰ո
“Your base parameters are misaligned,” I rasped, my voice sounding like crushed glass. I pointed a trembling finger at the screen. “The defense tower’s structural code is fighting the terrain algorithm. Shift the variable here p>
Jaxon’s small fingers tapped the screen, adjusting the code. The model rendered flawlessly, the ancient stone towers locking perfectly into place.
He let out a triumphant, excited cheer. Without a moment’s hesitation, he threw his small arms around my neck and pressed a warm, firm kiss to my freezing cheek. The pure, innocent affection was a sudden jolt of electricity. It pierced straight through the thick ice of my grief, and for a fraction of a second, a fragile, genuine smile broke across my numb face.
I glanced up. In the rearview mirror, Grant’s golden-flecked eyes were locked directly on me. His hands gripped the steering wheel, and the atmospheric pressure in the cabin subtly shifted. His rosemary and rain scent leaked a dark, calculating Lycan satisfaction. He had orchestrated this entire interaction, using his son’s innocence to build a bridge I couldn’t possibly burn.
Thirty minutes later, we sat in a private, glass-enclosed dining room at the back of a restored, century-old barn housing a Michelin-starred rustic restaurant. A massive stone fireplace cast a warm, orange glow over the wooden table, illuminating plates of maple syrup pancakes, thick-cut bacon, and black truffle scrambled eggs.