8. The Silver Siege

The atmosphere in the room shifted from erotic tension to lethal preparation in a heartbeat.

    Girard dropped me to my feet, his entire demeanor hardening into that of a warlord. The man who had just been worshipping my skin was gone, replaced by the Apex. His eyes didn’t fade back to amber; they stayed a bright, glowing gold, the pupils slitted like a wolf’s.

    “Stay in the suite,” he commanded, his voice now a layered, terrifying growl. “The walls are reinforced with lead and steel. If anyone who isn’t me tries to enter, use the drawer in the nightstand. There is a Glock loaded with silver-tipped rounds. Don’t hesitate.”

    “Silver?” I asked, my heart racing. “If they’re my father’s men, they know what you are. They’ve prepared for this.”

    “They know,” Girard said, his jaw tight. “Marcel Monet didn’t just sell you for territory, Arielle. He sold you to learn my weaknesses. He used you as a Trojan horse to map my defenses. And now he’s come back to finish the job.”

    He disappeared into the hallway, leaving me in a silence that felt heavier than the cellar.

    I didn’t stay in the suite. I was a Monet, and I knew my father’s tactics better than anyone. If he was here, he wasn’t looking for a fair fight. He was looking for a slaughter.

    I grabbed the gun—the cold weight of it familiar in my hand—and slipped out into the gallery. Below, in the grand foyer, the chaos had begun.

    The sound was what struck me first. Not the sound of gunfire, but the sound of shattering glass and the high-pitched hiss of gas canisters. Her father’s men were using silver-nitrate smoke—a neurotoxin designed to paralyze a shifter’s nervous system.

    Through the haze, I saw Girard. He was a whirlwind of violence. He had partially shifted, his claws extended, tearing through the tactical gear of the mercenaries as if it were paper. But he was slowing down. The silver smoke was coating his lungs, making every breath a struggle. Through the bond, I felt it—the burning, acrid sting in my own throat, the weakening of my own limbs.

    “Girard!” I screamed, firing the Glock at a mercenary who was leveling a high-powered rifle at Girard’s back.

    The man fell, but three more took his place.

    In the center of the carnage, a figure stepped through the front doors. He wore a crisp white suit, completely unbothered by the blood and smoke around him.

    Marcel Monet. My father.

    “Arielle,” he said, his voice calm and cold, as if we were back at the dinner table in Paris. “Step away from the beast, darling. You’ve done your job perfectly. You kept him distracted long enough for us to prep the neutralization field.”

    “You used me as bait!” I shouted, my voice shaking with rage. “You didn’t care if he killed me!”

    “But he didn’t, did he?” Marcel smiled, a thin, cruel line. “He fell for the bait. Alphas are so predictable when it comes to their mates. Now, come here. We have a buyer for the Roux bloodline, and they want the Alpha alive for ‘research.’”

    Girard let out a roar of pure agony as a silver-tipped harpoon caught him in the shoulder, pinning him to the grand staircase. He collapsed to one knee, the silver burning into his flesh, black veins spreading from the wound.

    I looked at Girard, who was suffering for the sake of a bond he hadn’t chosen. Then I looked at my father, the man who had raised me only to discard me.

    I didn’t run to Marcel.

    I turned the gun on him.

    “The Monets don’t negotiate with monsters,” I repeated my own words from the cellar. “And between the two of you, Dad… I’ve realized you’re the only one who doesn’t have a soul.”