Chapter 261

[ 1,025 words ]

Julian’s POV

“I don’t care,” I rasped. My voice didn’t sound like mine. It was a low, animal rumble that carried the full, unyielding weight of my intent.

My phone vibrated violently on the desk, sitting directly in the puddle of spilled scotch and blood.

Marcus.

I swiped the screen with a bloody, dripping thumb and pressed the device to my ear.

“The jet,” I commanded before he could speak a single syllable. “Now p>

“Julian,” Marcus’s voice came through the line, tense and rapid, his professional composure completely frayed. “The press in London is already flying. Jude Wolfe booked a private flight to New York forty minutes ago. He lands tomorrow morning p>

“I don’t care when he lands,” I hissed, my hand gripping the edge of my mahogany desk so hard the wood groaned under the pressure of my fingers. “Get my plane on the tarmac. I want to be in Brooklyn in twenty minutes p>

“Julian, if you go to her penthouse now, the press p>

“I am going to my wife, Marcus,” I growled, cutting him off with a finality that left no room for negotiation. “If a single camera is outside her building, have my security team sweep the street. I am sleeping in her bed tonight. And if Jude Wolfe thinks he can walk into this city and touch what is mine, he is going to find out exactly how a Windsor defends his territory p>

I hung up, throwing the phone onto the desk.

Zane was still standing there. He didn’t try to argue. He didn’t tell me I was being reckless, or that the board would panic, or that Delia would use the sudden departure to cause more drama. He was my best friend. He had been with me through every single war we had fought to build what we had, and he knew that when it came to Katia, the corporate rules did not exist.

“I’ll coordinate with Marcus,” Zane said, his eyes sharp and focused. “I’ll have the flight plan cleared and the security detail positioned at her building before your car hits the highway. Go p>

“Thank you,” I said.

I didn’t grab a coat. I didn’t wrap my bleeding hand. I walked out of the study, my strides long, heavy, and furious, the alpha control I had spent thirty-four years maintaining completely gone. My boots clicked against the stone floor of the corridor, the sound echoing like gunfire in the quiet house.

Jude Wolfe had just started a war. He thought he could play a game of shadows and corporate strategy with my wife’s life. But by the time my plane hit the tarmac in Brooklyn, I was going to make sure Katia remembered exactly whose weight she took in the dark. I was going to drive myself so deep inside her that no other man’s name would ever exist in her mind again.

The elevator ride to the penthouse was the longest ninety seconds of my life.

My chest was tight, my breathing short and jagged, the raw copper taste of blood still lingering in my throat. My hand was a mess. The blood from the shattered crystal glass had dried in dark, sticky streaks across my palm and fingers, but the fresh cuts were still leaking, staining the leather of my steering wheel on the drive over.

I hadn’t stopped to clean it. I hadn’t stopped to wrap it. The only thing that existed in my mind was the image of Jude Wolfe’s face on that broadcast and the sound of his low, British voice claiming my wife.

He had said the words. He had said them to the entire world.

I let myself into her penthouse with my key. I didn’t make a sound. I didn’t need to.

Katia was standing at the floor-to-ceiling glass window of her living room, her silhouette dark against the massive, glittering wall of the Manhattan skyline across the river. She was still in the black dress from earlier, her hair loose, her body completely still. She must have heard the heavy click of the deadbolt because she turned slowly.

She saw me.

She didn’t speak. She didn’t ask how I got in, she didn’t mention the broadcast, and she didn’t deploy that cool, unbothered corporate armor she usually used to keep me at a distance. She took one look at my face—at the dark, wild look in my eyes and the sheer, unyielding fury radiating off my body—and she ran to me.

She crossed the space between us in three long strides and threw herself into my chest, her mouth finding mine instantly.

It wasn’t a tentative greeting. It was a frantic, desperate collision of lips and teeth. But I had a mission tonight. I wasn’t here to comfort her, and I wasn’t here to play games. I grabbed her waist with my uninjured hand, my fingers digging deep into her skin, and deepened the kiss. I drove my tongue deep into her mouth, taking complete possession of her breath. I didn’t stop kissing her. I didn’t let her pull back even a fraction of an inch to breathe.

Katia’s hands scrambled up my chest, her fingers clawing at the buttons of my shirt. She yanked the fabric apart, buttons snapping and clattering against the hardwood floor as she tore the shirt off my shoulders. I didn’t break the kiss. Even as our mouths locked together, I could see the reflection of the headlights and taillights of the city traffic moving in a continuous, glittering stream twenty stories below us.

I reached down, grabbed the hem of her black dress, and hauled it up over her head. I threw the fabric aside. She wasn’t wearing a bra, just her silk thong, which I hooked my fingers into and ripped apart.

She was now completely naked.

I dropped to my knees on the floor in front of her. I grabbed her thighs, forcing them wide apart, and buried my head directly between her legs. I started eating her pussy like I meant it. I was starving, driven by a raw, animal instinct to erase every other man’s name from her skin.

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