But I heard the menace behind his words.
Slips on the stairs. Break-ins gone wrong. Wrong place, wrong time.
The game has escalated, and I know what’s at stake. Not just the girl who lost everything in that fraternity house. Not just the trial that could gut a powerful family.
Me.
My blood runs cold, but it sharpens me, slicing through the fear and leaving only resolve.
He doesn’t get to scare me.
Threaten me, Julian Lemaire?
You should know better than to corner something with teeth.
Chapter 25
Bastien Montclaire
Every morning starts the same—routine,precision, and control.
The scent of rich espresso drifts through my space—a luxury home carved out of stone and silence. Clean lines and high ceilings. Everything has its place. No warmth or mess. Nothing that lingers.
It’s meant to be untouchable. And for years, it has been.
But now? Things are different.
It’s been days since I’ve seen her, too long since I’ve had her beneath me, breathless and shaking.
Not because I don’t want her. Because I want her too much. And every hour I don’t touch her, the need claws deeper. It’s wild, restless, and becoming impossible to contain.
There’s something feral in me now, a desire that stolen nights and whispered needs won’t satisfy. It wants all of her—every breath, every heartbeat. This hunger-turned-addiction is dark and unquenchable.
I don’t want to leave her aching. I want to push in so deep she forgets what life was like before me.
Watching her isn’t enough. Craving her isn’t enough.
I want permanence and control.
Her. Entire. Fucking. World.
She’s not a game. She’s a necessity, and I’ll burn everything to keep her.
But I’ve stepped back to give her space, allow her to breathe… and let myself ache.
Still, I haven’t stopped watching her.
The screen flickers to life as I open the surveillance feed on my laptop, and there she is. The live footage from her living room spills across the monitor.
She’s at her laptop, hair twisted into that messy bun I love so much. Reading, typing, pacing, talking to herself in low bursts of frustration, but the words never quite make it past her lips.
She’s working a case, pouring everything into it.
Whatever the accused did, it’s keeping her focused and fierce. And I respect the hell out of it. She’s chasing justice for victims, people who learned the world would let them shatter before it would ever bleed for them.
That fire in her spine? It’s the part of her I want most.
So I’ve stayed away and been quiet. She deserves this win. But the longer I sit in this house, the more that restraint costs me. My hands itch to touch her. My jaw grinds at the memory of her moans. Every second without her coils tighter around my ribs.
