“This intrusion has become rather inconvenient,” Vivienne announced, drawing herself up. “I think it’s best if you leave, Mr. Drake.”
Every cell in his body rebelled. His lion raged against the command, against leaving Camille in this emotionally barren place. But to fight, to claim, to overrule her parents in their own home—that was the path of a tyrant, not a protector. He had already crossed a line to defend her; crossing another would only trap her further.
He held Vivienne’s glacial stare, letting her see the power he was choosing to leash. “Of course,” he said, his voice dangerously calm.
His gaze cut to Camille, capturing the conflicted apology in her eyes and the embarrassed flush on her cheeks. He gave a slight, almost imperceptible nod before turning on his heel.
He walked out of the St. James penthouse, the heavy door closing behind him with a final click that echoed in the empty hallway. The scent of lemon was replaced by sterile air. He stood for a moment, fists clenched at his sides. He had seen the golden cage up close. And his mate was locked inside.
Leander stood before the elevator, his broad shoulders tight with a fury he hadn’t allowed to surface in front of them. The instinct to turn around, to kick the door down and demand they look at their daughter—really look at her—burned through his veins.
Then, a soft click.
The penthouse door opened behind him.
He turned. Camille stood framed in the doorway, the light from within casting a warm glow around her silhouette. She’d changed nothing, still in the blue silk pajamas that made her look like a dream against the marble and chrome, but the performance was gone. Her expression was stripped bare, soft with an apology that cut deeper than defiance.
“I’m so sorry about that,” she said, her voice a low murmur meant only for the space between them. “They’re… they’re just like that. It’s fine, really.”
The casual way she dismissed their callousness, as if her worth was a topic for negotiation and her wellbeing an afterthought, ignited a fresh wave of protective rage. It wasn’t anger at her. It was a furious, visceral hatred for the people who had taught her to expect so little.
“It’s not fine, Camille.” The words came out rough, scraped raw from a place inside him he usually kept locked. He took a step closer, stopping himself before he could reach for her. “What you experienced in there isn’t normal. You deserve someone who notices when you’re struggling. You deserve a place that feels safe. Soft. Where you can just… be.”
He watched the words land. Saw the vulnerability flicker across her face—a quick, startled widening of her blue eyes and a faint tremor in her lower lip before she pressed them together. It was a look of someone hearing a truth they’d forgotten was possible. It nearly undid him.
“Thank you for the soup,” she whispered, her gaze dropping to the floor for a second before lifting to meet his again. “And for… checking on me. It means more than you know.”
The gratitude in her voice, so profound for a simple gesture of care, felt like a punch. It was a testament to a lifetime of emotional drought.
“I’ll see you in the morning,” he said, the promise a low rumble.
He forced himself to step back and turn toward the waiting elevator. If he stayed another second, he would do something she might not be ready for. He would gather her into his arms, carry her out of this cold tomb, and spend the night proving to her what care actually looked like.
The temptation was a physical ache. But he walked away, feeling her eyes on his back until the elevator doors slid shut, severing the connection. The image of her standing alone in that opulent hallway, a solitary figure of quiet resilience, burned behind his eyelids.
Outside, the night air of Manhattan did nothing to cool the restless agitation simmering beneath his skin. The walk to his building was a blur of polished storefronts and passing traffic while his thoughts centered on Camille. Her parents’ cold dismissal. Her graceful acceptance of it. The way she’d looked at him as if he’d offered her a glass of water in a desert.
His lion paced inside him, a caged, furious beast. She deserved softness, and he wanted, with a ferocity that scared him, to be the one to provide it.
He rounded the corner into the more secluded area leading to his building’s private entrance, the city sounds muffled here. Two men materialized from the deep shadow between dumpsters. They moved with coordinated purpose, not street thugs, but professionals. And on them, clinging like cheap cologne, was the unmistakable, oily scent of Damian Cross.
Instinct overthrew contemplation. Leander’s world narrowed to the immediate threat. He didn’t wait for them to speak. He moved.
The first man swung a weighted bat. Leander ducked under the arc, his own fist driving upward into the attacker’s solar plexus. The air left the man’s lungs with a choked grunt. The second came in low, aiming for his knees. Leander pivoted, using the man’s momentum to slam him face-first into the brick wall with a sickening crack.
His lion roared, pushing against the inside of his skin, demanding release and blood. Leander kept it leashed, but its fury fueled his own. Then a fist connected with his jaw, snapping his head to the side. Pain bloomed, bright and sharp. He grabbedthe first man by the throat, who was staggering back to his feet, and shoved him hard into the dumpster. The metal rang out in the quiet lane.
“Tell Damian,” Leander growled, his voice barely human, “his games have consequences.”
The second attacker scrambled up, pulling a knife. Leander saw the glint and the desperate shift in posture. He didn’t hesitate. A swift, brutal kick disarmed him, sending the blade skittering into the darkness. Another kick to the ribs had the man curling into a ball gasping.
Leander stood over them, his chest heaving, knuckles split and bleeding. The fight had lasted less than three minutes.
“Come after me again,” he said, the words a low, predatory promise, “and I won’t be so civilized.”
He left them there, walking the last hundred feet to his building with a controlled stride. The adrenaline was a hot tide receding, leaving behind the cold, hard reality. Damian was escalating his rivalry with Leander because Camille was near him.
Damian’s move tonight was clear, clumsy, and desperate. A warning. A claim.Stay away from what I want.
