Chapter 121
Chapter 121:
My heart skipped a beat, then raced. The air between us crackled with a tension so thick I could taste it. I needed to diffuse it, to find some safe ground before I melted entirely under his gaze. I grasped for the only neutral topic I could think of.
“You… you raised her well,” I managed, looking down at my hands. “Azalea. She speaks so highly of you. You’re a wonderful father, Dallas p>
The temperature on the balcony seemed to drop ten degrees in an instant.
Dallas went still. The predatory heat in his eyes vanished, replaced by a cold, flat annoyance. He sat back, crossing his arms over his broad chest, the muscle in his jaw ticking.
𝘕𝖾𝘸 𝖼𝗁𝗮𝘱𝗍e𝘳𝘀 𝘦𝘃е𝘳y w𝖾𝗲k o𝗻
“Don’t call me that,” he commanded, his tone sharp enough to cut glass.
I blinked, startled by the sudden shift. “What? Father? I meant it as a compliment. You took her in, you p>
“I know what I did,” he interrupted, his voice rough. “But you are not Azalea. And I am not looking for another daughter p>
He stood up abruptly, towering over me, blocking out the sun. His shadow fell across me, heavy and consuming. He placed one hand on the back of my chair and leaned down until his lips were inches from my ear. I could feel the heat radiating off him, smell the storm brewing beneath his skin.
“When you look at me, Adella, I don’t want you thinking about my parenting skills,” he whispered, his voice dark and laced with a dangerous, velvety suggestion. “Unless you mean it in a different way… Daddy p>
I choked on my own breath, eyes widening in shock. A cough ripped through my chest as my face burned with a humiliation that was confusingly tangled with a sharp, electric jolt of arousal.
Dallas pulled back, a smirk playing on his lips — arrogant, satisfied, and entirely wicked. He had drawn a line in the sand, brutal and clear.
We were not playing house. We were playing with fire.
Adella
The lingering heat of the weekend — Dallas’s dark gaze, the taste of his lips on glass, the dangerous thrill of his command — still hummed beneath my skin as I walked into Design on Monday morning. But the moment I stepped onto the restoration floor, that warmth was extinguished by a blast of arctic tension.
The open-plan studio, usually a sanctuary of hushed whispers and the gentle rustle of parchment, was deadly silent. The air smelled of ozone, harsh chemical solvents, and the sharp, sour tang of pure fear.
“Who signed off on the solvent mixture p>
Caleb Thorne’s voice wasn’t loud, but it carried the weight of an Alpha’s judgment. He stood at the central workstation, his knuckles white where he gripped the edge of the table. Spread out before him was the founding treaty of the Hyde Pack — a document older than the city itself.
Or what was left of it.
A jagged, bleached stain marred the bottom right corner, completely obliterating the signature of the first Hyde Alpha. It was a catastrophic error. A political nightmare.