THE POSSESSIVE BLOODLINE のすべてのチャプター: チャプター 31 - チャプター 40

ChristopherThe morning roared with the sound of war — gunfire snapping through the air, the heavy thump of explosives hammering the Grey House’s outer walls. I’d ordered every breach point, every detonation. Precision. Force.But I hadn’t come here for bricks and mortar. I’d come for her.“Ingrid!” I bellowed across the smoke-choked lawn.And there she was — not behind the barricade I expected, but standing beside him. Beside Jace Grey.Her hair was wild, her face streaked with grime. But her eyes — those eyes were the same ones I’d known since she was small. Only now they looked at me like I was the enemy.“Get over here!” I shouted, taking a step forward.She didn’t move.Then, a quiet, stubborn: “No.”I froze. “No?”“You’re not taking me,” she said.Her voice wavered, but her feet didn’t move.Rage burned under my ribs. “That man—” I jabbed a finger at Jace, “—is a manipulator. He’s

Chapter 33RickMorocco was hot.Not the kind of hot that clung like Manila summers or Vegas heatwaves — no, this was a dry burn, the kind that cracked your lips and made the air feel thinner.The mansion we pulled up to could’ve been ripped straight from an oil prince’s daydream — sprawling courtyards, terracotta walls, arched doorways casting deep shadows in the sunlight. Inside, the air smelled faintly of citrus and old wood, cool despite the blaze outside.No one spoke.We walked in, carrying nothing but the dust of the escape on our clothes and the weight in our chests. Jaxon threw himself onto the nearest couch, his jaw tight, eyes fixed on the marble floor. Matt disappeared to deal with the luggage, though we didn’t have much. Jace… Jace hadn’t said a single word since the plane landed.Who would?We’d all seen her fall.Bleeding.Still.It didn’t matter how many times I replayed it in my head

CHAPTER 35IngridIt’s been twenty-six days.Twenty-six days in this marble cage, where nothing touches me but the silk of old luxury and the coldness of my father’s curated silence.The Bishop Estate smells like lemon polish and old money. The walls are too clean. The lights too bright. It feels like I’ve been embalmed—wrapped in pristine linens, kept on display.I sit in the corner of my childhood bedroom, staring at the same window I used to sneak out of. Now it’s locked. Ironically, no one’s trying to trap me. I’m just too tired to run again.I feel like I’ve been unplugged. Nothing charges me here.Christopher thinks I’m healing. He watches me like I’m a fragile PR package that can still be salvaged. The media says I was “traumatized but rescued.” The staff still calls me “Miss Ingrid.” As if I haven’t been reborn in blood and smoke and sin.They think I’m better.I’m not.The thought comes like a w

Jace The Moroccan air tasted like burnt sugar and smoke.Marrakech was a fever dream tonight — lanterns swinging from every corner, streets bleeding with color and sound. Music throbbed from deep inside the riads, a mix of drums and bass that tangled with the smell of grilled lamb and cardamom. It was chaos. The kind of chaos I craved.And then I saw her.At first, just a flicker in the crowd. Bronze skin, a slip of silk the color of desert dusk. But it wasn’t her dress that nailed me in place — it was her eyes.Green. Sharp. Hungry.Ingrid’s green.It hit me like a punch. My ribs rattled. My brain stuttered. For a split second, my chest caved in. I didn’t even want her — this stranger — but I wanted what her eyes carried. That ghost of a girl I left tangled in black sheets and blood back home.I moved toward her before I even thought.The souk was shoulder-to-shoulder, noise and heat and strangers brushing against me, but I cut through it like a blade. She turned her head and tho

Rick didn’t move when I stepped out into the hallway, still leaning against the wall like he’d been carved there. His arms were crossed, his face unreadable, but I could see it in his eyes — the weight of everything he wasn’t saying.“What?” I said, pulling the door shut behind me.“That wasn’t control, Jace,” he said. “That was you circling the drain.”I snorted. “You stood out here for the whole show just to tell me that?”He stepped closer, close enough that I could smell the sharp bite of his cologne under the smoke and gun oil. “You think I give a damn about your little alley souvenir?” His tone was cold enough to frost glass. “I care that you’re losing the edge. And when you lose it, we all pay.”I smiled — sharp, slow. “The Brotherhood isn’t a democracy, Ricky. You follow me. Not the other way around.”Rick’s jaw tightened. “The Brotherhood follows a man who can keep his head. Not one who’s got it buried between the thighs of some stand-in because he can’t face what he reall