Semua Bab Bait for the devil : Bab 11 - Bab 20

The transition from the blood-soaked stone of the North Tower to the sterile, white sheets of the infirmary felt like a descent from one circle of hell to another. Girard had been unconscious for thirty-six hours. I hadn’t left his side once. I sat in a hard wooden chair, my own hand bandaged where the silver harpoon had scorched my palms. Every time I closed my eyes, I saw the Apex—the raw, beautiful terror of Girard’s true nature. The link between us was quiet, a dull ache that felt like a severed limb. “You should eat, Madame.” I looked up to see Bastien, Girard’s Beta. He was usually a man of stone, but today his eyes held a flicker of something I hadn’t seen before: respect. “I’m not hungry, Bastien,” I said, my voice raspy. “How is he?” “The silver is gone, but the Primal State takes a toll on the soul,” Bastien said, sitting across from me. “He gave up his humanity to save you. In our world, that is the ultimate sacrifice. But it has created a vacuum.”

The sound of the vault door sealing shut was the most final thing I had ever heard. It wasn’t a click; it was a thud that vibrated in my teeth, followed by the terrifying, high-pitched whistle of the air scrubbers reversing. Dante Moretti had turned the world’s most secure room into a vacuum chamber. I scrambled to my feet, my head spinning from the neuro-gas. My vision was swimming, but the white-hot light emanating from Girard’s frame was a beacon I couldn’t ignore. The silver chains were glowing cherry-red now, the smell of ozone and burning metal thick enough to choke on. “Girard!” I screamed, lunging toward him. The air was thinning. Every breath felt like swallowing shards of glass. I reached for the primary locking mechanism on the silver frame, my fingers blistering as I touched the heated metal. I didn’t care. Through the Lien de Sang, I could feel his heart—it was a drumbeat of pure, unadulterated power, fueled by the electricity the Morettis had used to tort

The flight to Monaco was a blur of pressurized steel and the heavy, metallic scent of weapons being primed. I stared out the window of the private jet, watching the lights of the French Riviera flicker like dying embers against the vast, black void of the Mediterranean. Beside me, Girard was a silent storm. He was cleaning his silver-plated .45, the rhythmic click-slide of the metal acting as a countdown to the carnage I knew was coming. “You’re too quiet, Arielle,” he said, his voice a low vibration that I felt in my marrow before I heard it with my ears. “I’m listening,” I replied, turning to him. Through the Lien de Sang, I could feel the ripple of his muscles, the way his heartbeat was syncopated with the hum of the engines. “My father is changing, Girard. Even from here, across miles of open air, I can feel the rot in our shared blood. He’s not a man anymore, but he isn’t like you. He’s a hollowed-out shell, a ghost filled with nothing but the Morettis’ ambition.” “Th

The air in the laboratory didn’t just vibrate; it shrieked. The sound of the high-pressure cooling vats cracking under the sonic roar of the Ghost Alpha was a symphony of destruction. I watched, my back pressed against a jagged pillar of reinforced concrete, as Girard rose from the wreckage of the glass partition. He was a vision of primal fury. His clothes were little more than scorched rags clinging to his cabled muscles, and his skin—that beautiful, olive-toned skin I had worshipped in the quiet of the estate—was now glowing with an internal, white-hot fire. Through the Lien de Sang, I didn’t just feel his anger; I felt his absolute, soul-deep terror for my safety. It was a dark, heavy weight in my chest, a physical pressure that made it hard to draw breath. He wasn’t just fighting for his pack anymore; he was fighting for the woman who held his soul in her human hands. “Let. Her. Go.” The command wasn’t just spoken; it was a psychic wave that shattered the remainin

The hum of the private jet’s engines was a low, vibrating drone that seemed to pulse in time with the headache throbbing behind my eyes. I sat in the oversized leather captain’s chair, staring out the window at the French coastline as it blurred into a smear of indigo and charcoal. We were flying low, skimming the edge of the Mediterranean, avoiding the radar of the remnants of the Moretti family and whatever was left of my father’s fractured Syndicate. Across the aisle, Girard was a statue of obsidian and repressed violence. He hadn’t changed out of the suit he’d worn in the Monaco lab, though it was ruined—the silk of the lapel was scorched, and there were faint, dried splatters of purple ichor on his cuffs. He was staring at his own reflection in the darkened window, his jaw so tight I could see the muscles jumping in his cheek. Through the Lien de Sang, the connection between us was a raw, frayed wire. I didn’t just see him; I felt the absolute, crushing weight of his