Chapter 642
Chapter 642:
She looked at the mirror one last time. She unplugged the power cord, killing the digital message.
“Game on, Lucian,” she whispered.
The air in Room 390 of the Dragon Hotel was heavy, smelling of lavender cleaning spray and the distinct, metallic scent of impending violence. It was supposed to be a bridal suite, a place of tulle and champagne, but now it felt like a coffin waiting for a lid.
Skye Sterling stood before the full-length mirror. Her reflection was fractured by the red lipstick scrawled across the glass. It didn’t list the room number; she was already here, after all. Instead, a single word dripped in crimson wax, a taunt designed to peel back her confidence layer by layer:
ALONE?
Her fingers trembled, not from a withdrawal she no longer suffered, but from the cold calculation of the gamble she was about to take. This wasn’t about drugs anymore; it was about leverage. She adjusted the collar of her dress, feeling the small, hard lump of the active GPS micro-tracker sewn into the lining of her bra. It was uncomfortable, digging into her skin, a constant reminder that she was the bait.
“He’s close,” Liam Kensington said.
His voice was low, a rumble that vibrated through the small room. He was dressed in black tactical gear, stripped of any insignia, looking less like the newly appointed Chairman of the Hayes Group and more like the weapon he had become for her.
He moved efficiently, grabbing a towel from the rack and wiping the red letters off the mirror in broad, angry strokes. The glass squeaked, a high-pitched sound that made Skye flinch.
“The perimeter sensors just tripped,” Liam said, tossing the stained towel into the corner. His hand hovered over the Glock at his waist. “He didn’t come alone p>
“If you shoot him, the building goes down,” Skye said, her voice steady despite the adrenaline flooding her veins. “Alistair confirmed the lobby is rigged with pressure plates. Lucian wants a stalemate, or he wants a massacre. We can’t give him either p>
The door handle jiggled. It was a slow, deliberate sound. The turn of brass tumblers.
𝘚𝘵𝘰𝘳𝘪𝘦𝘴 𝘵𝘩𝘢𝘵 𝘸𝘪𝘭𝘭 𝘩𝘰𝘰𝘬 𝘺𝘰𝘶 𝘰𝘯 𝘣𝘦.𝘤𝘰𝘮
“Hide,” Skye whispered.
She reached out and gripped Liam’s forearm. His muscles were coiled tight as steel cables. “Liam, please. If he sees you, he detonates. I have to be the one he sees. I have to be the one who broke p>
Liam looked at her. His hazel eyes were storms of conflict. He hated this. He hated using her as a shield, as a lure. But he nodded, a sharp, jerky motion.
“I’ll be right here,” he promised, his voice a ghost of a whisper. “Breathing down his neck p>
He slipped behind the heavy velvet curtain of the changing alcove, disappearing into the shadows of hanging wedding gowns just as the lock gave way.
The door exploded inward.
It wasn’t a kick; it was a breach charge, small and precise. The lock shattered, and the door swung open, banging against the wall.
Lucian Graves stepped over the threshold.
He wore a long black trench coat that seemed to swallow the light from the hallway. In his hand was a suppressed pistol, the silencer long and matte black. He didn’t look bored, nor did he look composed. He looked electric, his eyes wide and darting, the look of a man whose empire was crumbling but who still held the match.