Chapter 56
Chapter 56:
He broke the kiss, both of us breathless, foreheads resting against each other. His hand moved between us, fumbling in his pocket. He grabbed my hand and pressed a small, crinkling foil square into my palm.
I looked down, my mind reeling.
A condom.
“No more pills, Adella,” he rasped, his voice dark with a promise that sent a jolt of electricity straight through me. “That contract? It’s ash. Tonight, we play by my rules p>
My eyes widened. The Binding Protection Contract — the paper shield I had hidden behind for weeks — was gone. He was tearing down the walls, stone by stone.
“Dallas,” I breathed, my voice barely audible. “Not here p>
𝗪𝗲е𝗄𝗅𝘆 𝗋𝘦𝗅e𝖺𝘀е𝘴 𝗼𝗻
His eyes burned into mine, searching, demanding. “Bedroom p>
I didn’t speak. I couldn’t. I gave a single, jerky nod.
A growl rumbled deep in his chest. He didn’t wait. He swept me up into his arms as if I weighed nothing, the hallway blurring past us. I buried my face in the crook of his neck, inhaling his scent, surrendering to the inevitable crash of the wave.
Tonight, there would be no more walls. No more contracts.
He reached the end of the hall and didn’t bother with the handle. He kicked the heavy oak door of my bedroom open with a deafening crash that echoed like a gunshot — signaling the end of our truce, and the beginning of something far more dangerous.
The morning sun sliced through the bathroom blinds, harsh and unforgiving. It illuminated the dust motes dancing in the air and reflected off the pristine, floor-to-ceiling mirror where I stood frozen, a towel clutched to my chest.
My hand trembled as I reached up, fingers hovering over the skin of my neck.
It looked like a war map.
Dark, violet bruises bloomed across the pale curve of my throat, trailing down to my collarbone like a violent constellation. They weren’t just kiss marks — they were brands. Claims.
“Oh my god,” I whispered, the sound strangled.
Panic, cold and sharp, pierced through the lingering haze of last night’s pleasure. Tonight was the engagement party. Tonight, I had to walk into a room filled with the elite of the werewolf world — including Braydon Hyde, the man who had rejected me — and I looked like I had been mauled.
I looked owned.
Anger flared in my chest, hot and sudden. I spun around and marched out of the en-suite, not bothering to grab a robe.
Dallas was in the bedroom, standing by the foot of the disheveled bed. He had just pulled on a pair of charcoal dress trousers, his torso bare. His back was a landscape of muscle, rippling as he fastened his belt. The air in the room was still thick with our scent — a heady mix of my vanilla and his overwhelming storm-rain musk.
Fragments of last night surfaced unbidden — his hands on my waist, the weight of him above me, the desperate way he had said my name in the darkness. I remembered clinging to him, drowning in the storm of his presence, and waking up wrapped in his arms.
“You did this on purpose,” I snapped.