Chapter 215
Chapter 215:
Braydon: I have documents. Letters your mother wrote. Things that would change how the Pack sees her… and you. Meet me, or they go public.
The air left my lungs.
Letters. My mother. What could he possibly have? What secrets had she buried that he could now use as a weapon?
A wave of nausea rolled through me — not because I cared for him, but because the guilt hook was so sharp, so familiar. It snagged deep in my chest, dragging up memories of a past I thought I had escaped.
“A lie p>
The voice came from the shadows near the balcony doors. I startled, nearly dropping the phone.
Dallas stepped into the light. He had discarded his jacket, his white dress shirt unbuttoned at the collar to reveal the strong column of his throat. He wasn’t looking at me — he was looking at his own phone, his thumb scrolling with lethal precision.
“How do you know?” I whispered, my voice trembling. “If he really has something p>
Dallas lifted his eyes. They were cold — not directed at me, but at the situation. His pupils were blown wide, the black bleeding into the dark of his irises.
“Because,” he said, his voice a low rumble that vibrated through the floorboards, “I’ve had his communications monitored since the last incident. He has nothing. No letters, no documents. Just a desperate man grasping at shadows.” He tapped his screen once and slid the phone into his pocket. “Gamma Leon just confirmed. The safety deposit box he’s referencing is empty. He’s bluffing p>
𝖩𝗈i𝗇 𝗍𝗵𝘦 c𝗼𝘮𝗆𝘶n𝗶𝘁𝘺 𝘢𝘁
The relief should have been instant. Instead, a hollow, aching chasm opened in my stomach.
Braydon had lied. Of course he had. He had used the memory of my own mother as a bargaining chip just to get me back in the same room as him. It was an act of desperation — pathetic and cruel.
“He is trying to manipulate you,” Dallas stated, walking toward me. He took the phone from my unresisting fingers, deleted the message with a few taps, and set the device face-down on the table. “Do not let him p>
“It’s not that simple,” I murmured, hugging my arms around my waist. “It’s not just a text, Dallas. It’s the weight of it. The years of it p>
Dallas watched me, his expression unreadable. He didn’t offer platitudes. He didn’t tell me to get over it. He simply stood guard — a silent sentinel against the ghosts of my past. But his presence, powerful as it was, couldn’t stop the shaking in my hands.
I needed it to stop. I needed to numb the sharp edges of the memories slicing through my mind.
I turned away from him and crossed to the bar cart in the corner of the room. The crystal decanter glowed under the recessed lighting, filled with amber liquid that promised oblivion.
I didn’t bother with ice. I didn’t bother with a mixer. I poured three fingers of bourbon into a heavy glass and raised it to my lips.