Chapter 81
Caron
"Are you serious?" I say, looking at Lenora, who’s crouched beneath my desk in my office.
"I saw it in a movie—actually several movies," she says, tilting her head against my thigh, looking up at through her lashes.
She’s so pretty.
"I’m at work," I mutter, though it cos out weak, because we both know I’m already giving in.
"I know," she murmurs, her hand sliding dangerously higher. "This way, even when you’re at work, you’ll think of ."
"I always think of you," I whisper, my voice rougher than intended.
Her lips curl into that maddening smirk, the one that always spells trouble.
"Caron Anderson," she purrs, "CEO, Alpha wolf, mine—and right now, my personal experint."
"Experint?" I arch an eyebrow, my hand twitching where it rests against the arm of my chair.
"Mm-hmm," she hums, nails grazing my inner thigh. "How much can I distract you before you break that oh-so-perfect composure?"
"Composure? What composure?" I mutter, shifting back in my chair to make room for her, already surrendering to whatever ga she’s playing.
And then the intercom buzzes.
Lenora freezes. My jaw tightens.
"Caron," Simone’s voice filters through, cool and efficient.
"Yeah," I answer, forcing my voice to stay level, praying she can’t hear the edge in it.
"There are people here for you."
"Just give ... fifteen—no, ten minutes," I say quickly, my hand sliding instinctively into Lenora’s hair, begging her not to move.
"It’s important," Simone cuts back, tone sharper now.
I frown. Important? Nothing feels more important than this. Than her.
"They’re from Whitestone."
And just like that, the air changes. My heart stutters. Lenora stills completely, her hand resting against my thigh but unmoving, both of us processing what Simone just said.
From Whitestone.
I exhale slowly, the weight of it pressing against my ribs. Whatever fun this was turning into, it’s over—because Whitestone ans blood, history, and responsibilities I’ve been avoiding.
I press the intercom. "Send them in."
Lenora stands at my side, her hand warm on my shoulder, grounding .
The door opens with Simone’s usual brisk efficiency, but what steps in behind her... makes the air feel heavier.
Three n.
Three wolves who have clearly seen better days.
Their clothes are worn thin, stained by travel and struggle. Their faces are pale and sharp, cheeks hollow from hunger or exhaustion—or both. There’s sothing in their eyes too: not just the brightness of wolves, but the weight of desperation.
They hesitate just inside the office, as though even the polished marble floors and glass walls of my building don’t feel real to them. Like they’ve stepped into another world entirely.
Simone closes the door softly, the lock clicking into place. Soundproofing hums faintly, a barrier for human ears, but we all know wolves don’t need ears to feel what’s being said in this room. Still—it’s a necessary precaution. Don’t want headlines about being involved in sothing sketchy, or so cult.
She doesn’t leave. Instead she crosses to stand beside my desk, her posture taut and ready, eyes sharp. I know her well enough to see it—her instincts are humming, sa as mine.
"Flint? Torren Vane? Mr. Clay?" Lenora says, surprise coloring her voice at the unlikely combination standing in front of us.
I turn to her, frowning.
"Flint is Elder Stellan’s son," she explains quickly. "Torren Vane—obviously Elder Vane’s. And Mr. Clay was my math teacher in high school. He’s human."
I glance back at the trio. They shift awkwardly under my scrutiny. Flint, wiry and sharp-eyed, looks around with unmasked curiosity, taking in every polished line of the office like he’s stepped onto another planet. Torren, older and broader, keeps his chin raised but his arms folded tight across his chest, clearly not here for the interior design. And Mr. Clay—his hair more gray than brown now—avoids my gaze altogether, hands worrying at the hem of his worn jacket.
"Uh... may we get you anything?" I ask, breaking the silence. "A glass of water?"
"A shower? Food?" Lenora cuts in, and I snap my head toward her.
The effect is imdiate. All three stiffen, the faint scent of sha rolling off them. Flint’s ears redden; Torren glares at the floor. Even Clay swallows hard.
I glare at her. She just shrugs, unapologetic.
"Right," I mutter. Rising from my chair, I cross to the hidden wall panel and press the release. The door slides open, revealing the discreet office bedroom. "Please—help yourselves. There should be spare clothes, towels, whatever you need."
For a mont, none of them move. Then Torren gives the faintest nod, ushering Flint forward. Clay follows last, shoulders hunched, and they slip inside. The door seals shut behind them, blending back into the wall.
I exhale through my nose and turn on Lenora. "You didn’t have to say it like that."
Her gray eyes et mine, calm, stubborn. "They needed it."
I want to argue, but Simone clears her throat beside the desk, already pulling out her phone. "I’ll order so food."
"Make it enough for six," I tell her.
"And sothing hearty," Lenora adds, softer this ti. "Steak. Potatoes. Bread. And dessert."
Simone nods crisply, typing fast. "It’ll be here in twenty minutes."
Simone makes herself comfortable in a nearby chair as we wait, and I head back to my chair. Lenora plops herself onto my lap without hesitation, like she always does. My arms move automatically, wrapping snugly around her waist.
She relaxes into my hold, head tilting slightly against my shoulder as if to say, this is where I belong. The faint scent of her hair calms the restless tension that’s been crawling through since Simone ntioned Whitestone.
Minutes tick by. The soundproof door stays sealed, muffling the shuffle of water pipes and faint movents inside. The silence in the office stretches, broken only by the hum of the AC.
"Hey, it’s fine," she says, her voice steady, comforting.
And I wish it was. I really really do but sothing tells it’s not fine at all.
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