Chapter 360
The silence following Marcus’s gulp of wine was not peaceful — it was the heavy, suffocating calm before a detonation. The crystal glass hit the table with a dull thud, the sound echoing like a gavel sealing his fate.
But Marcus Hyde was not a man who knew how to die with dignity.
He stood up, swaying slightly. The rich scent of vintage Merlot on his breath was now curdled with the acrid, sour stench of a cornered animal. He ignored the ice-cold warning in Dallas’s eyes — a look that promised dismemberment — and turned his bloodshot gaze directly on me.
“You think this is a victory?” Marcus sneered, his voice slurring but venomous. He pointed a shaking finger at me. “Look at her. A parasite wrapped in silk. She clings to the Alpha King because she has nothing of her own. No wolf. No power. Just a pretty face hiding a leech’s soul.”
Dallas shifted beside me, a low, tectonic rumble building in his chest. He wanted blood. I placed a hand on his forearm, feeling the muscles coiled tight as steel cables beneath his suit jacket.
“She reminds me of Lyra,” Marcus spat, the name landing in the room like a curse. “Another weak woman who seduced a powerful Alpha with wide eyes and a sob story. And look what happened to that pack. Ruin. Ash. You are just like her.”
“Enough,” Dallas growled, starting to rise.
Gigi raised a single hand. She didn’t look at Dallas; her amber eyes were fixed on Marcus with the detached curiosity of a scientist observing a particularly repulsive insect.
Marcus, fueled by the madness of his humiliation, reached for the wine bottle, his knuckles white. Violence hung in the air, thick and electric.
But Gigi was faster.
With a movement so fluid it belied her age, she picked up the heavy crystal goblet in front of her. It was filled to the brim with ice water. She didn’t throw it. She didn’t splash him. Instead, with agonizing deliberation, she tilted her wrist and poured the contents onto the marble floor directly at Marcus’s feet.
The sound of water and ice striking stone was shockingly loud in the silent dining room. The puddle spread rapidly, soaking into the hem of Marcus’s expensive Italian trousers.
“My house will not be stained by your filth,” Gigi said. Her voice was devoid of anger, which made it infinitely more terrifying. It was the voice of judgment itself. “Cool yourself, Marcus. You smell of desperation.”
Marcus froze. The water seeped into his shoes — a cold, physical manifestation of his total isolation. He looked around the table. Victoria was studying the tablecloth. Dallas looked ready to kill. Gigi looked bored.
He was utterly alone.
A strangled noise ripped from his throat — half growl, half sob. He kicked his chair back, sending it skidding across the floor. Fumbling inside his jacket, he produced a checkbook. The mundane object looked ridiculous in his trembling hands, a pathetic shield against the ancient power radiating from the Matriarch.
He scribbled furiously, the pen nearly tearing through the paper. He ripped the check out and slammed it onto the table in front of me.