Chapter 147
Chapter 147:
He buried his face in the crook of my neck, his nose trailing along the sensitive skin there, inhaling deeply. I froze, my heart hammering like a trapped bird. His breath was hot against my skin, sending shivers racing down my spine, igniting sparks of electricity that had no business existing in a wolfless girl like me.
“Mine,” he hissed against my neck.
The word was guttural, possessive, and terrifyingly absolute. Not a question. A verdict.
My breath hitched, and the sound seemed to snap the haze of sleep that held him. Dallas went still. Slowly, the crushing pressure of his arm relaxed, though he didn’t pull away.
“It seems,” his voice came again, rough with sleep and threaded with dark, dry amusement, “that I have committed the crime of false imprisonment in my sleep p>
He released me then, rolling onto his back and dragging a hand through his disheveled dark hair. The loss of his warmth was immediate and jarring, leaving me feeling exposed in the cool morning air.
𝗪e 𝘶р𝗱𝘢tе 𝘦𝘷𝗲𝗋𝗒 𝘄𝘦𝗲k o𝗇 ѕ.𝘤𝗼m
I scrambled out of the bed, cheeks burning. “I… I should go p>
Dallas watched me, his black eyes sharp and unreadable, tracking my movements with the patience of a predator that knew its prey couldn’t run fast enough.
“Go where, Adella?” he asked quietly.
“To the Manor,” I stammered, smoothing down my wrinkled clothes — the same ones I had worn the day before. I felt grimy and small and utterly out of place in this fortress of glass and concrete. “I need my things. My clothes p>
“You don’t need anything from that house,” he interrupted, sitting up. The sheet fell to his waist, revealing the sculpted expanse of his chest, scarred and powerful. He nodded toward the door. “Go to your room. Shower. I’ll have someone bring your things from the lake house. Then I’m taking you back to the penthouse — you’ll change there p>
I hesitated, but the command in his tone was absolute.
An hour later, after a quick stop at the lake house to gather my thoughts and a silent drive back to the city, I stood in the master bathroom of the penthouse. The scalding water washed away the scent of the storm and the last traces of fear clinging to my skin. When I finally wrapped a towel around myself and stepped into the bedroom, I paused.
The walk-in closet doors were wide open.
I had seen it before, in the chaos of the night at the club. But seeing it now, in the calm light of morning, was an entirely different experience. It wasn’t just a closet — it was a boutique. Rows of clothing hung on backlit racks: cashmere sweaters in soft creams and greys, silk blouses, structured coats, jeans, dresses, even sleepwear. I reached out and touched the sleeve of a soft knit sweater. Brand new, the tag still on, and exactly my size. Exactly the style I would have chosen, had I ever had the money to choose.
This hadn’t been thrown together overnight. It had been curated. A declaration.