All Chapters of HIS POISONOUS POSSESSION: Chapter 171 - Chapter 180

[The Reset Protocol]The air in the Sicilian villa didn't just vibrate; it curdled. The neurological EMP that had leveled the soldiers left a vacuum of sound so absolute it felt like being buried alive in velvet. Silas Vane, the Primordial, was a heap of smoldering silk on the marble, his "Master Key" having turned into a blackened brand across his heart. But no one was looking at the fallen god.All eyes—obsidian, hazel, and violet—were fixed on the threshold.Eleonora Moretti stood there, a specter of silver dust and lethal grace. Beside her, the man who should have been a ghost, Julian Moretti, held a suppressed rifle with the practiced ease of a man who had never truly left the war. The resemblance between Julian and Dante was terrifying; it was like looking at a mirror that had aged without losing its edge.

[The Ghost in the Grid]The lower wing of the St. Claire estate was not a dungeon of damp stone and rusted iron; it was a masterpiece of clinical isolation. The walls were a seamless, eggshell white, and the lighting followed a circadian rhythm programmed to maximize Ivy’s hormonal stability. There were no bars, only invisible barriers—pressure sensors in the floorboards and thermal cameras that mapped her every inhalation.Ivy sat on the edge of the bed, her fingers curled tightly around the small, plastic diagnostic strip hidden in the palm of her hand. The two pink lines were a death sentence and a miracle all at once. In the silence of her "golden cage," she could hear the hum of the estate’s mainframe, a digital beast that watched her with a thousand electronic eyes.Arthur had stripped her of the "Fourth Pulse" in

[The Gravity Of Us]The red strobe of the emergency lights didn't feel like a siren; it felt like a heartbeat.Dante didn’t look at the countdown in the mirror. He didn't look at the door; he had just kicked off its hinges. He looked at Ivy. His hands, still slick with the rain and oil of his infiltration, cupped her face with a gentleness that was more terrifying than his violence. He was a man who had survived the crushing depths of the ocean, and the only thing that seemed to break him was the sight of her in a St. Claire silk robe."You're shaking," he rasped, his voice a low, jagged vibration that bypassed her ears and settled deep in her marrow. "Is it the dampeners, or is it the fact that I’m still breathing?"Ivy couldn't find her voice. Her throat felt tight, constricted

[The Trinity of Blood]The air in the Harvest Room was sterilized to the point of hostility. It smelled of cold ozone and the faint, copper tang of old blood, a scent that seemed to trigger a primal alarm in Ivy’s newly heightened senses. The elevator doors hissed shut behind them, sealing Dante and Ivy in a white-tiled purgatory.In the center of the room, the Firstborn—the Prototype—stood like a dark god carved from obsidian and violet light. He held the surgical laser as if it were a scepter, his eyes fixed on Ivy’s midsection with an intensity that transcended curiosity. It was hunger.Dante stepped in front of Ivy, his body a rigid barrier of muscle and scarred tactical nylon. His grip on the shattered glass carafe tightened, blood from his own palm slicking the shards. The "Sync" between the two brothers was

[The Zero-Point Horizon]The extraction was not a rescue; it was a violent exfiltration through the throat of a storm. The helicopter—a matte-black Ghost-6 with no markings—clawed its way through the Tuscan fog, its rotors screaming against the turbulence. Inside the cramped, vibrating cabin, the air was thick with the scent of copper, ozone, and the overwhelming, terrifying heat of Dante Moretti.Dante didn't sit across from Ivy. He sat over her. He had her pinned against the reinforced bulkhead, his knees bracketing her thighs, his hands gripping her waist as if he expected her to dissolve into the shadows if he loosened his hold for even a second. The Unbreakable Frequency was no longer a hum; it was a roar. Their nervous systems were fused in a feedback loop of adrenaline and raw, possessive desperation.Every time the he