Chapter 484
“I have eyes everywhere, Adella. Including the clinic where your former mate is currently taking his last breaths,” Anson said smoothly. “He is weak. The Pack is vulnerable. And the Moonstone Ridge project is sitting in limbo, waiting for someone to claim it.”
My breath hitched. He knew about Dallas’s condition.
“I don’t care about his Pack,” I lied, my voice steady.
“But you care about your parents’ legacy,” Anson countered, dangling the perfect bait. “Have dinner with me tonight. Le Coucou. We can discuss how to take Moonstone Ridge back from the Hydes and the Marshalls.”
He paused, letting the weight of his ambition settle over the line. “Marshall is a dying king, Adella. I’m offering you a throne.”
I closed my eyes. Dallas had thrown me to the wolves to protect me, leaving me completely defenseless. But I wasn’t going to hide. If Anson Fowler wanted to hand me the weapons to reclaim my life and tear down the empire that had broken me, I would take them.
“Eight o’clock, Anson,” I said coldly. “Don’t be late.”
Le Coucou was a ghost town of flickering candlelight and the haunting melody of a lone violinist. Anson Fowler had rented out the entire five-star restaurant. As I sat across from him, the sharp, heavy scent of his cologne—pine and something metallic—made my skin prickle, a constant reminder of the predator I was dealing with.
He slid a sleek tablet across the white linen tablecloth. “Shell companies, Adella. I’ve already begun buying up the Moonstone Ridge debt. But I don’t want a mere business partner.” He leaned in, his eyes dropping to my bare neck. “A contract is cold, Adella. A Marking is forever. I’m offering you a real bond, a real Pack.”
My stomach churned. He didn’t want to save me—he wanted the dormant White Wolf bloodline in my veins to solidify his power against his rivals.
“I’m not trading Dallas’s cage for yours, Anson,” I replied, keeping my voice steady.
Before he could argue, the sharp click of heels echoed across the marble floor. A wave of expensive perfume cut through the air—something floral trying too hard to mask the edge beneath it. Yara.
She wore a sleek crimson dress, her lips curled into a mask of sickening, practiced sympathy. “Adella,” she purred, stopping at our table. “Moving on so quickly? I suppose a wolfless girl has to find a new protector when her King realizes she’s a liability.”
Gigi’s words echoed in my mind: He is a martyr idiot. If Dallas was truly dying and pushing me away to protect me, then Yara was nothing but a prop. I decided to test that theory with a lie designed to gut a she-wolf’s pride.
I met her gaze, my voice dripping with icy calm. “He came to me last night.”
Yara’s smug smile faltered.
“He said the Goddess made a mistake,” I continued, leaning back in my chair. “He said a Warrior’s scent is common—like sweat and steel—but a Mate’s scent is home. He said he smells you and all he feels is the battlefield. But he smells me, and Ragnar howls.”
.