Chapter 222
Serena
The words barely left my lips before he pulled me against his chest, arms wrapping tight enough to squeeze the air from my lungs. One hand cradled the back of my head, fingers threading through my hair with a tenderness that made my throat close up.
"God," he breathed into my hair, voice cracking on the syllable. "Thank God you're okay. You're okay. You're—"
His body trembled against mine, subtle but unmistakable. I'd never felt him shake before. Not once. Not when Felix had been dragged into that family tribunal, not when Arthur had nearly torn the company apart over stock disputes, not even when Wesley had held a gun to his cousin's head in that godforsaken warehouse.
But now? Now he was coming apart at the seams, and it was because of me.
"When I heard you scream on that call—" His breath hitched. "Christ, Serena, I almost—"
He cut himself off, pulling back just enough to frame my face with both hands, tilting my chin up so he could search my eyes. His own were red-rimmed, pupils blown wide with residual panic. For a man who prided himself on control, on never showing weakness, he looked utterly wrecked.
And somehow, impossibly, that made me feel safer than I'd felt in days.
I opened my mouth to say something—anything—to reassure him, but the sound of Vincent's poorly suppressed snort of laughter cut through the moment like a knife.
Lance froze. His jaw tightened, and I watched in real time as he became aware of our audience: Vincent, leaning against the car with his arms crossed and a shit-eating grin splitting his face, and Wesley, standing a few feet away with his hands shoved deep in his pockets, looking anywhere but at us.
Lance's ears went red. Actually red.
He released me so fast I nearly stumbled, clearing his throat and straightening his tie with the kind of sharp, aggressive movements that screamed embarrassment. When he turned toward Wesley, though, his expression had smoothed into something closer to gratitude—genuine, unguarded gratitude that made my chest ache.
He extended his hand. Wesley blinked at it for a second, clearly caught off guard, before clasping it firmly.
Lance didn't let go right away. Instead, he pulled Wesley into a brief, tight embrace—the kind that spoke of years of unspoken regret and hard-won understanding. When he stepped back, his hand lingered on Wesley's shoulder, grip firm enough to ground them both.
"Thank you," Lance said, voice low and rough with emotion he didn't bother to hide. "For keeping her safe. For being there when I couldn't." He paused, jaw working. "For becoming the man I always knew you could be."
Wesley's throat worked. His eyes went glassy for half a second before he blinked it away, but I saw it—the way those words landed, the way they filled some hollow space inside him that had been empty for far too long.
Then he grinned, cocky and sharp-edged, and waved his free hand dismissively. "What, this? Come on, Uncle Lance. How could I let my favorite uncle's girlfriend get hurt on my watch?"
Lance stepped back, his gaze sweeping over Wesley's new look—the fitted black leather jacket, the tactical boots, the chain hanging from his belt loop. His mouth twitched.
"Though I have to say," Lance drawled, one eyebrow lifting, "the whole 'underground kingpin' aesthetic? It suits you. Very... threatening."
Wesley barked out a laugh, spreading his arms. "Right? I look badass. You should see the respect I get now when I walk into a room."
"Terrifying," Lance agreed dryly, but there was warmth in his eyes. Real warmth. "Just don't let it go to your head."
Wesley opened his mouth to respond—probably something self-deprecating and sarcastic, knowing him—but I couldn't take it anymore.
"Guys!" I snapped, throwing my hands up. "There is literally a dead body ten feet away from us. Can we maybe deal with that before we have a heartfelt family reunion?"
Both of them turned to look at Vanessa's crumpled form, as if they'd genuinely forgotten she was there. Lance's eyes widened fractionally. Vincent straightened, his grin vanishing.
"She's... already dead?" Lance asked, voice tight.
Wesley, by contrast, didn't even flinch. He glanced at the body with the kind of detached calm that only came from seeing too much death too young, then looked back at us and shrugged.
"Poisoned," he said, tone almost conversational. "Quick-acting, too. Probably timed-release or remote-triggered—something clean and professional. She was dead before she hit the ground."
He crouched beside her, tilting his head as if studying a particularly interesting art installation. "Shame, really. She was just about to tell us who put her up to this whole mess. Poor, stupid Vanessa. Bet she didn't even realize she'd been backstabbed until the poison kicked in."