Semua Bab THE POSSESSIVE BLOODLINE : Bab 41 - Bab 50

Dominic Grey I’ve been fed up in this goddamn prison. The walls stink of sweat, piss, and regret. Men in here rot like bad meat, but me? I’m just aging like rum — still dangerous, still potent, still ready to burn your throat when I hit. Speaking of rum… hell, I wonder what it tastes like now. My tongue remembers it sharp and warm, the kind that bites back. Here, all I get is this tasteless swill they call water. No ice. No burn. Just emptiness. Years I’ve been locked in here, watching my hair go a little more silver, watching my knuckles itch for a trigger they can’t touch. I’ve missed the outside world — the streets breathing under neon lights, the sound of a gunshot echoing in an alley, the sweet thump of a man dropping after I put one in him. And yeah, I’ve missed that one good feeling — tugging cigarette smoke into my lungs while my other hand handled the business end of payback.

Ingrid The jet feels like a coffin by the time we land. Morocco. The air tastes like sand and citrus, but I barely notice it. The mansion rises in the distance — stone walls black as ash, swallowing what little sunlight dares to touch them. The opposite of the Bishops’ sprawling white palace. That place wanted to blind you with wealth. This one? This one doesn’t care if you choke on the dark. Jace’s hand is around my wrist before I can pause. No warning. No words. Just dragging me through the iron gates like I’m a suitcase he owns. The moment the heavy doors open, she’s there. A woman leaning against the grand staircase. Her dress is the kind you wear when you want trouble to find you. Gold sequins catch the light, clinging to her like they’ve made a pact. But it’s her eyes that make my skin crawl. Stormy. Green-fle

Ingrid The sun was lazy this morning, spilling gold across the marble balcony and warming my skin like a soft hand. A mug of freshly brewed coffee sat snug in my palm, steam curling into the cool morning air, carrying the scent of roasted beans and something faintly sweet from the kitchen below. The world felt… still. Only the gentle rustle of the palm leaves and the distant hum of the estate broke the silence. Birds flitted from branch to branch in the manicured garden, their chirping quick and light — a private concert I didn’t have to pay for. I leaned against the iron railing, the black silk of my nightgown brushing against my thighs. The thin straps slipped slightly down my shoulder with every small movement. I took a sip, the bitter warmth coating my tongue, and let my eyes wander. That’s when I saw them. Men in training — scattered across the lawn like shadows in motion. B

Jaxon First thing I did when we got back from the Bishop estate was walk straight into the room they’d given her. Not just any room — her room. Big windows draped in pale linen. A balcony that caught the late afternoon light. It felt wrong for it to be empty, so I made it my job to fill it up. I hit the nearest boutique in town, a small place run by an old Moroccan couple who didn’t ask too many questions. Bought her everything — soft sweaters, light dresses, silk scarves she’d probably never wear but I knew she’d like to touch. Shoes, too, because she used to complain about “having nothing to match” even though her closet was full. I even threw in ridiculous things — a rabbit-shaped pillow, a glass snow globe — just to make it feel like home, not another safehouse. By the time I got back, the others were already knee-deep in strategy. Rick had blueprints spread a

Ingrid The halls carried music — soft, haunting, familiar. The Halls resound a Thousand Years song drifted from somewhere, warm and melancholy, bleeding through stone and shadow. Someone’s speaker was left on. I followed the sound, bare feet silent against the cool floor, until it led her to the slightly open door of Jace’s room. He was there — sitting in a black swivel chair, head tilted back, eyes closed, breathing slow like he was meditating. His hands rested loosely on the armrests, fingers relaxed, but there was still that coiled energy about him, the kind that never really leaves a man built for war. For a moment, I didn’t move. Just watched him in the dim light, the melody wrapping around them both. I stepped closer. “You look one dime of a gown in that white dress,” he said suddenly, voice deep and low — like he hadn’t even opened his eyes, but he kn