Chapter 221 Grant's Slaughterhouse
Chapter 221 Grant's Slaughterhouse
♤ Cain ♤
The city lights streak past the window as the car moves, but my eyes keep drifting back to her.
Leila sits beside me, fingers folded neatly over her purse, shoulders squared like she’s stepping into a ballroom instead of a den of vipers. The mask is still on her face. She’s been wearing it since the house.
I told her to take it off.
Twice.
She didn’t.
Her excitement leaks through the damn thing anyway—bright, unguarded. She keeps glancing out the window, then at me, then back again like a kid sneaking out after curfew. It makes my jaw tighten.
Grant’s Hall comes into view in my mind before it does in reality.
Grant’s Hall.
Grant’s Slaughterhouse.
That’s what the men call it when they think no one’s listening.
A masquerade for monsters. Silk masks, tailored suits, and enough blood history soaked into those marble floors to drown a city. Alliances are formed there. Empires rot there. People disappear there.
And I’m only going back because of Tobias’ fucking secret.
My fingers curl slowly against my thigh.
If the bastard in that photo shows his face tonight, I won’t need a gun to ruin him. I’ll do it with my hands. Slowly. Make him regret ever breathing near my family.
Weapons aren’t allowed. That’s the rule. Always has been.
Funny rule.
As if men like us ever needed guns to kill.
I’ve seen snipers tear through skulls from rooftops. Daggers slipped between ribs during polite conversation. Poison dissolved into wine while men laughed and toasted treaties. Xavi’s hands aren’t clean either—I signed off on that one myself. Lethal poison. Quiet. Efficient.
Rules don’t stop violence. They just change the method.
Which is why Leila is staying glued to my side tonight.
Every second.
I didn’t want to bring her. God knows I didn’t. The danger is real, not whispered rumors or bedtime horror stories. One wrong glance, one wrong man deciding she’s leverage—
My jaw locks.
But she pushed. Wouldn’t bend. Wouldn’t back down.
And something ugly and warm sparked in my chest because of it.
She isn’t afraid of my world.
She isn’t afraid of me.
And that… that does things to a man.
I glance at her again. The black dress clings like it was made to provoke sins. The open back, the slit, the confidence she’s wearing like armor. The gun strapped to her thigh presses into my thoughts.
She thinks I gave it to protect her.
Part of that is true.
The other part?
She’s bait.
And tonight, I’m hunting.
If the bastard takes it—if he even breathes wrong in her direction—I’ll end this before the music dies.
I adjust my cufflinks, eyes forward as the car slows.
She claps my thigh out of nowhere.
“Cain, the place is beautiful. It’s like the Met Gala.”
My body reacts before my brain does. I recoil hard, elbow knocking the door, pulse spiking like I’ve been shot.
Fuck.
She freezes. “Oh—I’m sorry. I didn’t mean—”
I shut my eyes, inhale through my nose, force the heat down before it crawls somewhere it has no business being.
“It’s fine,” I cut in, slapping on a smile that feels glued to my face. “My mind wasn’t here.”
That part isn’t a lie.
Because inside, I’m burning.
My body is tight, restless, aching in that slow, dangerous way that pisses me off more than outright need.
The problem has a name, a dress, and a fucking heartbeat beside her.
When I saw her earlier—really saw her—in that dress, logic packed its bags and left. Tobias had eyes. Bastard knew exactly what he had.
Leila is beautiful in that quiet, irritating, lethal way. Cute. Petite. Fierce. Annoying as hell.
But tonight?
Tonight she looks like sin wrapped in black silk.
No.
Stop.
If I keep thinking like that, my cock is going to roar, and tonight is business. Not lust. Not weakness. Not my brother’s baby mother sitting inches away from me.
And proving Freddie right would be the final insult.
Even back at the penthouse, I tried to keep distance. I really did. But the devil in me doesn’t listen worth shit. I found excuses—checking the slit, the heels, the necklace—anything to touch her. Her skin is soft. Too soft. Like it doesn’t belong in my world.
Fuck.
“Are you okay?” she asks, leaning closer. “Your cheek is all red.”
Her eyes shine behind the mask, curious and concerned, and that just makes it worse.
“We’ve arrived, Boss,” Xavi says from the front. “Everything’s arranged for tonight.”
Good. Because I need movement. Noise. Distraction.
I glance at Xavi, then back at Leila.
“I think you’re running a fever—” she starts, hand lifting toward my temple.
I shift instantly, pull my mask out, and strap it on before she can touch me.
She doesn’t know she’s the cause of this. Of all of it.
I need to get the fuck over her.
Maybe I’ll have a fuck or two at the party. Bleed this tension out before it turns into something ugly.
“I’m fine,” I say sharply. “It’s nothing. We need to go now.”
She nods, quick and obedient.
Like a cat.
No—like a zombie.
I open the door, then pause and look back at her, voice dropping into warning territory.
“And remember, princess—don’t pull that thing from under your dress unless you sense danger. And don’t leave my side or Xavi’s side.”
Not for a second.
Because I already know I’ll be distracted tonight.
The Hunter’s Don will be there. Arrogant prick loves poking at me like it’s a sport. And if he so much as breathes wrong in my direction—
I’ll fuck his fiancée tonight just to spite him before I catch the unfortunate motherfucker I actually came here for.
Masks on.