Chapter 275
Chapter 275:
The red light blinked once, then went dark. Recording active.
The elevator chimed softly and the doors slid open.
The penthouse suite was an assault on the senses. The room was dark, lit only by low amber lamps and the city glow filtering through floor-to-ceiling windows. The air was thick with expensive cigar smoke, aged whiskey, and something else beneath it all—something metallic and raw.
Blood and musk. The scent of a Rogue Alpha.
Jarred Volkov sat on a massive Chesterfield sofa at the center of the room. He was older than I had expected, silver at his temples, but his body was lean and powerful—coiled like a predator waiting to strike. He didn’t rise when I entered. He simply watched me, taking a slow sip from a crystal flute of champagne.
“Mr. Volkov,” I said, keeping my voice steady. I walked into the room and stopped a few feet from the sofa. “My cousin seems to think I’m a commodity to be traded. I’m here to discuss the terms of this arrangement p>
Volkov chuckled—a low, rumbling sound that seemed to vibrate through the floor. He set his glass down and rose to his feet with a deliberate slowness, his presence expanding to fill the room and press the air out of it.
“Terms?” he mused, stepping closer, inhaling deeply as though savoring the scent of my fear. “You misunderstand the situation, little wolf p>
𝖱o𝗆𝖺𝗇с𝖾 𝗇𝘰v𝘦l𝘴 o𝗇
He leaned in, a cruel smile playing at the corner of his mouth. “The business is already done. You aren’t here to negotiate, Adella. You’re here to be collected p>
My heart hammered against my ribs, but I didn’t flinch. I kept one hand resting on the clutch, ensuring the recorder caught every word.
We’ll see about that, I thought, steeling myself for the game I was about to play.
But as I looked into his cold, empty eyes, a chill settled deep in my bones. This wasn’t a transaction. This was a hunt. And I had just walked willingly into the trap.
Adella
“Collected p>
The word hung in the air, heavy and suffocating as the smoke from his cigar.
Jarred Volkov didn’t answer immediately. Instead, he reached for a thick manila envelope on the glass coffee table and upended it. Dozens of glossy photographs spilled out, fanning across the surface like a deck of cursed tarot cards.
My breath hitched.
There was me, walking across the campus green in the rain, huddled under an umbrella. There was me on a park bench, charcoal smudges on my fingers as I sketched. There was me, weeping on the library steps after Braydon had cornered me weeks ago.
“I have watched you for a long time, Adella,” Volkov said, his voice a low purr that turned my stomach. He lifted a photograph of me sleeping—taken through the window of my bedroom at the Thorne estate. “I know the scent of your fear. I know the rhythm of your despair. And I know about the blood that sleeps in your veins p>
“You’re sick,” I whispered, stepping back. My hand tightened around the clutch, the hard edge of the recorder biting into my palm. “Silas, the debt p>