CHAPTER 96
(Giselle's POV)
My eyelids feel like sandpaper, each blink a gritty, painful effort. They’re red and swollen, a physical testament to the sleep I viciously denied myself last night. Every time I’d drifted off, the memory of his hands, his voice, the cold finality of that signed certificate jolted me back to a horrible, buzzing awareness.
Across the luxurious expanse of the car’s backseat, Alpha Blake whistles a cheerful, tuneless melody. The sound grates on my last nerve. I keep my gaze stubbornly fixed on the world sliding past the tinted window. New York is a grey-and-concrete blur, its energy muted and distant. I must have passed out cold the moment the plane’s wheels touched the tarmac, because the next thing I knew, I was here, the gentle motion of this obscenely expensive car lulling me for a fraction of a second before reality crashed back in.
His whistling stops. I can feel his gaze on my profile, a physical weight.
“The silent treatment again, my dear?” he muses, his voice a low, amused rumble. “I thought we’d moved past this. You were so… engaging on the flight.”
I don’t honor that with a response. I just press my forehead against the cool glass, the vibration of the engine a dull hum against my skin. My reflection is a ghost in the window—pale, with dark circles carving bruises under my eyes.
“A simple ‘good morning, husband’ would suffice,” he prods, the word ‘husband’ laced with a dark, possessive pleasure.
The car begins to slow, turning onto a familiar, tree-lined drive. My stomach clenches. Alpha Zaro’s mansion. The place that was supposed to be my sanctuary. Now it just feels like another gilded cage, one I’m being paraded in front of.
Just before the car rolls to a perfect, silent stop before the grand entrance, his hand moves. His fingers, warm and disturbingly possessive, land on my thigh. The silk of my dress is scant protection against the heat of his palm, the deliberate, still pressure of his touch.
A jolt, equal parts revulsion and a traitorous, unwelcome spark, shoots through me. My head snaps toward him, my eyes finally meeting his. His sharp, intense gaze is full of smug victory.
“Take your hand off me,” I say, my voice a low, venomous whisper. It lacks its former fire, scraped raw from fatigue and despair, but the intent is clear. “Take your fucking hand off me if you still love having your head attached to your shoulders.”
He doesn’t remove it. Instead, his thumb begins a slow, maddening stroke along the sensitive skin of my inner thigh. His laugh is a soft, condescending puff of air. “Such a fierce little thing. All teeth and claws. But we both know that’s all it is, isn’t it? Noise. You can do nothing more than yap at me, little rabbit. The deed is done.”
The condescension, the absolute certainty in his tone, is the spark that finally ignites the tinderbox inside me. The numbness shatters.
I don’t push his hand away. I lean into it, leaning toward him until my face is mere inches from his. The expensive, predatory scent of his cologne fills my lungs. My movement is so sudden, so unexpected, that his smug smile falters for a heartbeat.
“You think so?” I hiss, the words dripping with a newfound, dangerous calm. “You think this is just noise? Don’t you forget for a single second, Blake. People change. I’ve changed.”
I let my gaze drop to his mouth, then back to his eyes, holding them captive. My voice drops to a intimate, threatening whisper, meant for him alone. “The time since you dragged me from Omaha has been short, I’ll give you that. But it’s been a very thorough education. So you listen to me, and you listen well. Don’t think for one fucking moment that I will just sit quietly in my pretty new cage and watch you carry out whatever sick, twisted plans you have for the Zaro family.”
His thumb stills on my thigh. The amusement in his eyes is completely gone, replaced by a dark, calculating intensity. He’s watching me now, truly seeing me, not as a prize, but as a variable. A threat.
The car is utterly silent. The driver has long since vanished, giving us privacy.
Blake’s eyes narrow, but a slow, intrigued smile touches his lips. It’s not a nice smile. It’s the smile of a hunter who’s just realized his prey might actually be capable of fighting back.
“Is that so?” he says, his own voice a low, intimate murmur. His hand on my thigh squeezes, just once, a promise and a warning all in one. “And what exactly do you plan to do about it, Mrs. Blake?”
He doesn’t wait for an answer. The door behind him opens, swung wide by a silent guard. The bright daylight slices into the dim interior of the car.
“We’ll continue this fascinating discussion inside,” he says, his tone conversational again, as if we’d been discussing the weather. He finally lifts his hand from my leg, the spot suddenly cold without his scorching touch. “I do believe we’re expected.”
He climbs out, straightening his suit jacket with an infuriating grace. He stands there, a tall, commanding silhouette against the grandeur of the mansion, and extends a hand back into the car for me. It’s not a request. It’s a command. A test.
You wanted a wild card, Alpha Blake, I think, my heart hammering a frantic rhythm against my ribs. Let’s see how you like it when the card has a razor’s edge.
I ignore his outstretched hand and slide across the leather seat, emerging from the car on my own. I stand there, facing him, my chin held high, the morning light illuminating the defiant set of my jaw and the dark circles under my eyes. I am a mess. I am exhausted. But I am not broken.
His smile widens. It’s the most terrifying thing I’ve ever seen.
“After you, my love,” he purrs, gesturing toward the mansion’s entrance.