Chapter 100
Chapter 100:
I turned back to him. “Tonight,” I said, my voice steady despite the fluttering in my stomach.
Dallas went perfectly still. He knew exactly what I was offering. We had danced around the physical consummation of our bond, hiding behind the safety of the Binding Protection Contract. But after last night’s confessions, that contract felt like a flimsy piece of paper standing between two raging fires.
His eyes darkened to the color of obsidian. The corner of his mouth curved upward — not quite a smile, but a vow.
“Tonight won’t be about a contract, Adella,” he said, his voice low and rough. “It will be about us p>
The promise hung in the air, heavy and electric.
𝘛h𝗲 𝗆оѕ𝗍 𝘱𝗈𝗽ul𝖺𝗋 𝘯𝗈𝘷𝗲𝗹s o𝗇 𝗀𝘢lոo𝘷𝘦𝘭ѕ.𝖼𝗼𝗆
I nodded, unable to speak, and stepped out of the car. The cold air of the garage hit my flushed skin, but it did nothing to cool the heat pooling in my chest. As I walked toward the elevator bank, the click of my heels echoing on the concrete, I didn’t look back. I didn’t need to — I could feel his gaze on my spine, a tangible weight, watching me, guarding me, waiting for the sun to go down.
I pressed the elevator button and smoothed my skirt with trembling hands. The doors slid open. I stepped inside, ready to face the wolves in the office — knowing the biggest, most dangerous wolf of all was waiting for me to come home.
The elevator doors slid open, and the scent hit me instantly — a dry, dusty cocktail of old parchment, acetone, and the faint metallic tang of ozone. It was the smell of history being preserved, a scent I usually loved. But today, as I stepped onto the polished concrete floor of the S&D Design restoration studio, it felt less like a sanctuary and more like an arena.
Heads turned. Whispers rippled through the open-plan space like a draft. I kept my chin high, channeling the steel Dallas had tried to forge in my spine just minutes ago.
“You must be the new addition p>
The voice was sharp, clipped, and dripping with disdain. I turned to face a woman leaning against a pristine white workstation. Clarissa Vance. Her blonde hair was pulled back in a bun so tight it looked painful, and her eyes scanned me with the precision of a scalpel, searching for flaws.
“Adella,” I said, extending a hand. “It’s a pleasure to work with you, Clarissa p>
She ignored my hand. Instead, she gestured to a cardboard box sitting on the desk behind her. A foul, damp stench wafted from it, overpowering the clean chemical smell of the studio.
“Augusta is busy,” Clarissa said, her lip curling slightly. “She asked me to get you started. Since you’re inexperienced with our standards, we thought it best you begin with the basics p>
She shoved the box toward me. “Pack tax records from the 1950s. Water damage. Mold infestation. They need to be cleaned, fumigated, and cataloged. By hand p>