Semua Bab Charlotte: Fated to the White Dragon: Bab 21 - Bab 30

D–D–Date?! My mouth hangs open like I’ve just been slapped with a frozen kipper. My brain’s scrambling all over the place. W–Wait up... is he being serious right now?! “Are you out of your bloody mind?!” I shoot up from my seat, with eyes wild, and heartbeat banging. Damon doesn’t flinch one bit. He casually swerves the car with a sharp flick to the left like he’s drifting through a film scene. And my head smacks back against the chair. “We’re here.” His voice, smooth but dark, and colder than ice, slices through my confusion. “Hold on, I’ll get the door for you.” I blink at him, still stunned. Trying to comprehend what he just dropped so casually. This guy’s mad, really. Certifiable. The kind of arrogant prick who orders chaos for breakfast and has it with champagne. We walk into Backlocks Restaurant. It's quiet, softly lit, and the walls are lined with modern art that makes everywhere seem surreal. We slide into a corner booth, although let’s be real—he chooses the s

Charlotte's POV Orlstyne. The name’s rattlin’ round my head. I don’t know no one by that name. I've never heard it, never seen it scribbled anywhere, not even in one of them dusty old files Melinda hides in her office. So how the hell’s he involved in this? And if this Orlstyne guy really nicked my necklace, then he must know something for sure. Probably something big. I let out a heavy sigh, like the weight of the whole damn planet’s sittin’ on my chest. Feels like everyone’s in on some twisted secret. All smirks and sideways glances, while I’m left twiddling my thumbs in the dark. I grab my phone again, my thumb hoverin’ over Evelyn’s name. I press it, breathing out. It rings... and then, voicemail. Again. The same bloody cycle. I’ve been calling her for days now, almost a week since that day. Texts, voice notes, the whole lot. But she's ignored everything. Not a single peep. Nothing at all. What am I meant to do, eh? Sit here and rot? I agreed to go along with

The room’s all posh like, real classy, but got this weird moody vibe to it. It's minimalist, yeah, but you can tell whoever designed it knew exactly what they were doin'. Abstract paintings are hangin’ on them wine-red walls, dead quiet like secrets no one wants to tell. There's pottery pieces on smooth shelves; all of it lined up like someone with proper OCD lives here. Not even a speck of dust floatin’ about. The air smells dead lush, with those incense sticks burnin’ somewhere, makin' the whole place feel... warm, and odd. Like someone ancient's watching us. But like a modern shrine. Damon stands beside me, tall, broody and built like a god. That face of his is unreadable again. Like he's got a thousand things goin’ on in his head and none of ‘em good. He pulls off his coat casually and hangs it in the corner, flexing his arms in a long-sleeved shirt. "This's my room," he says, all low and smooth. His grey eyes flick down at me. “What d’you want? I’ll tell 'em to bring it.”

(Charlotte's POV) Woah, the coffeehouse is still a mad house. Full to the brim with customers and servings. Cups clinking, people yapping, machines whirring. It’s chaos, but somehow warm. I’ve always wondered why folks pile in here like it’s the only place in town. Then again, maybe it’s 'cause Oliver’s dead good at what he does. And maybe I am too. But seriously though, it’s just coffee, innit? Still, Amelia’s holding down the fort alright, bless her. Another co-worker, Adam, flashes me a weary smile across the room, juggling orders like a pro. The others are busy as hell. Damon tugs my hand, pulling me through the crowd with that same bloody confidence he always carries. Like he owns the place, or like he’s been here before. Weird how he knows exactly where the office is. But at this point, nothing surprises me with him. He even knows where I bloody live. As I stumble in after him, my eyes lock on someone. A shadowy figure sat in the far back corner. They're cloaked in a

(Damon's POV) Cameron Jones. The nerve of the bastard. I can feel the heat building under my skin, that slow-burn ache that makes my inner mutility come alive. Pretending to be a Willie, eh? Fuck off. I’m fairly sure the real Cameron Jones has been rotting in the dirt for years now. And the thing wearing his face, whatever it is, is no run-of-the-mill Variant. The merge is too clean. Almost perfect that everyone's fallen for it. I scoff under my breath. What a bloody joke. Why won’t he just leave my princess alone and sink his teeth into someone else? Oh, that’s right, because I didn’t rip his throat out when I had the chance. Thought it’d be a laugh, watching Charlotte moon over him like a kitten chasing a bit of string. But now… watching the way she flinches when his name comes up, seeing her eyes flicker in that barely-there way while she's on the phone… I’m not laughing. I’m simmering, holding back flames from engulfing this whole room. My jaw tightens until I hear