Chapter 45 Setting the Trap
Kier's POV
The night before she came, sleep wouldn’t touch me.
Every time I shut my eyes I saw her in the boardroom—chin high, shoulders squared, heat in those dark eyes like a match head begging to be struck. Ironclad will need to decide if it wants to be chosen…
She had no idea she’d chosen me a long time ago.
The mate bond saw to that.
But she still believed she could walk away.
That illusion ended Monday.
Saturday at dawn I was anxious about my date with Sable, I called Emma.
She answered on the second ring, voice rough. “It’s six-thirty on a Saturday. Somebody better be dead or on fire.”
“Neither. I need you.”
“Okay," she sighed "hit me.”
“About the dinner with sable on Monday. I need this to be perfect no distractions. I want only the best.”
She paused just long enough to make a point. “It's 6:30AM, are you serious.”
“I’m always serious.”
“Okay, do you want formal dining, or the ‘I’m trying to seduce you’ set?”
“Emma......”
"Yes boss?" I could hear the eye roll through the phone.
“I’ll do tasteful instead of ominous.” A yawn, paper shuffle. “Food?”
“Matteo. Clean menu, nothing heavy.”
“Wine?”
“Decant the ’12 Caillou. And a hibiscus-lime spritz. Crushed ice.”
“Security?”
“Post at the elevator. No one at the door. No interruptions.”
“Flowers?”
“No props,” I said.
“Good. Flowers scream, I want to do you.” Her voice softened. “You sure about doing this here? Penthouse is… intimate.”
“That’s the point.”
“Fine. I’ll build you a fortress disguised as a living room. Try to eat today?”
“I’ll eat Monday.”
“Of course you will. Goodbye, gremlin.”
I pocketed the phone and walked the perimeter, fingers skating the cold edge of glass. The city below pulsed—every light a heartbeat, every car a vein.
Yet my head held one woman’s voice.
The invitation wrote itself: precise, clean, no air for argument. I expect you Monday. 8 p.m. Alone. A door only I could open.
Inside, my wolf paced. Mate. Claim.
Not yet, I told him. She bucks at anything that feels like a hand on the back of her neck.
By afternoon I punished the weight room until sweat blurred the mirrors and iron bit through my palms. Jaxon found me and tossed a towel like he wanted to wipe five years off my face.
“You look like hammered hell,” he said.
“I feel like it.”
"So, I heard from a little birdie there is an important meeting in the penthouse on Monday.”
“Is this little birdie Emma.”
“I can't reveal my sources. Are you sure this is a good idea. This is Sable, if she feels cornered she might bolt for the door.”
“I'm not letting her run,” I said. “She needs to understand where she belongs.”
He snorted. “You always sound like a philosopher right before you do something stupid.”
“Do you have a point, or are you here to narrate?”
“I'm just trying to make sure I don't lose my sister again."
And with that he left me with my heart hammering and that truth crawling under my skin. I ran until the treadmill chirred a warning and the ache in my lungs was cleaner than thought.
On Sunday, Emma texted: Penthouse notes and a link. She’d moved mountains overnight.
Security: discreet at elevator and service stairwell.
Kitchen: citrus salad; charred sea bass; grilled peaches with honeyed ricotta.
Drinks: Caillou ’12 breathing at 6:30; hibiscus-lime on ice.
Lighting: down two levels; living room only; dining haloed.
Table: off-white linen, matte slate plates, no centerpiece.
Interruption protocol: none.
I called. “Good.”
“I know.” Paper rustle. “I'm the best. So, what's the wardrobe Dracula?”
“Charcoal. No tie.”
“Alpha Casual.” Another pause. “Failsafe? A nine o’clock call you can ‘take’ if this goes sideways?”
“No, I have been waiting for this moment for to long.”
“Copy.” Softer now. “Remember she’s not a business proposition.”
“I know what she is.”
“Try sounding like it,” she said, and hung up on me—one of the reasons I keep her.
Monday morning the mate bond thrummed under my skin like a buried wire.
Ironclad’s Mondays smell like coffee and fear; the building runs on both. Emma met me with a stack of folders.
“Walk and talk,” she said. “Tokyo subsidiary needs an answer; Norway contract has two redlines; PR wants a quote about the takeover of Mountain Crest.”
“No quote.”
“Copy.” She shoved a protein bar at me. “Eat before you gnaw on a VP.”
I bit the cardboard chocolate. “Four o’clock?”
“Empty. You told me to clear it.”
“Good. Quiet the floor by six.”
“On it.” She hesitated. “And after?”
“After is after.”
“Translate that to any human language?”
“No.”
She exhaled. “Fine. I’ll make your chaos look like order.”
“Why do you work for me?”
“Dental,” she said, then softer: “And because sometimes the monster uses his power for the right reasons.”
“Sometimes,” I said.
She left me at my door. I tried to drown in work. It didn’t take. Her name sat behind every email like a watermark.
At one, Emma: “City Ledger wants your ‘urban myth’ origin story.”
“No.”
“At two, VP of logistics confirms Wednesday’s debrief. Says Friday was ‘productive.’”
“Tell him to send a clean budget.”
“At three, Mark from Lifecycle requests anonymized performance benchmarks from previous brand cycles. He’s ‘eager to collaborate.’” She did air quotes and a face.
“Say no.”
“He won’t like it.”
“He’ll live.”
She lingered. “And Sable?”
Her name reshaped the room. “Tonight.”
Emma studied me like deciding whether I was a candle or a fuse. “I’ll keep the floor clear.”
“Thank you.”
“I like you better when you look scared,” she said.
“I don’t get scared.”
“That’s the problem.”
By six, the building went quiet the way a forest goes quiet before a storm. I ended my last meeting early and rode the private lift. The penthouse door sighed open. Basil, citrus, and city heat braided the air. The table looked exactly as I’d asked—simple, honest. The wine breathing in the decanter.
Emma had left a folded card on the bar: Don’t blow the place down. A wolf face with fangs. I huffed a laugh and slid it into a drawer.
Security pinged: Elevator locked for private event. Posts stationed. All clear.
I stood at the window and watched the city pulse. The clock climbed toward eight. My wolf paced the length of my spine—restless, certain. Close, close, close.
“Not yet,” I told him.
He growled. I let him.
I checked my phone one last time. No messages. Good. No excuses. No outs.
I smoothed my cuffs, rolled my sleeves once.
The elevator whirred.
Stillness slid through me, total and precise.
Footsteps. Soft. Sure. A whisper of fabric.
The lock released with a soft click. The door opened.