Chapter 370
Forty minutes later, the city skyline had faded behind us, replaced by the manicured, oppressive greenery of the old Alpha estates.
I sat in the back of the black armored SUV, hands clasped tightly in my lap. The leather seats carried Dallas’s scent — rich and grounding — but beneath it I could almost detect the phantom smell of the Hyde manor: floor wax, old money, and misery.
“I can do this alone, you know,” I said, breaking the silence. My voice trembled slightly, betraying me. “You don’t have to come in. I don’t want you to have to deal with their…”
“Stop.”
The word was a command — soft but absolute. Dallas wasn’t looking at me; he was staring out the tinted window at the passing trees, his profile sharp and lethal. Then he turned, and his hand covered mine, his thumb tracing slow circles over the sensitive skin of my wrist. Sparks erupted at the contact, jolting through my veins and chasing away the cold dread.
“You are not walking back into that den of vipers alone, Adelia,” he said. “We go together. But we do not go to offer comfort.”
“We don’t?” I asked, breathless.
“No.” His eyes locked onto mine, intense and burning with fierce possessiveness. “We go to settle debts. You are not entering that house as the orphan girl they abused. You are entering as Luna Marshall, the mate of the Alpha King. And we will leave on my terms.” He squeezed my hand — a silent vow of protection that settled deep into my bones.
“Braydon thinks you are a victim,” Dallas growled, his lip curling. “Today, he learns that you are a queen.”
As the iron gates of the Hyde estate loomed ahead — rusting and ominous — I drew a slow breath. Dallas was right. I wasn’t that girl anymore. And with the most powerful predator in the world holding my hand, I had no reason to be afraid.
The SUV slowed, gravel crunching beneath the tires like crushed bone. We had arrived.
The interior of the Hyde manor smelled exactly as I remembered — a suffocating blend of lemon polish, dust, and the metallic tang of unspoken secrets. But today there was a new layer to the scent: the acrid, medicinal odor of sickness and the sour reek of fear.
We sat in the formal living room, the velvet sofas faded from years of sun exposure. Marcus Hyde sat opposite us, looking like a ghost of the Alpha who used to terrify me. His skin was gray and hung loosely on his frame. Behind him, Braydon paced like a caged animal, his eyes darting between Dallas and me with a manic intensity that made my skin crawl.
“This,” Marcus said, his voice trembling as he slid a rolled parchment across the coffee table, “is the deed to the northern timberlands. It was meant to be your mother’s. Victoria wants you to have it. As a dowry. As an apology.”
I looked at the yellowed paper. Once, this land would have been a lifeline. Now it looked like a desperate bribe.