His Stripper Mate のすべてのチャプター: チャプター 21 - チャプター 30

ZO’s POV The service tunnels of the Hollows were never meant for people. They were the city’s intestinal tract—narrow, damp, and smelling of iron, stagnant water, and the sharp, acidic smell of rat urine. “If I contract a prehistoric plague down here, Zo, I am officially haunting you,” Sasha hissed, her voice echoing off the curved, slime-coated walls. She was holding a high-powered medical penlight in one hand and a scalpel in the other, moving with the twitchy, caffeinated grace of a woman who had forgotten what sleep felt like. “My ghost will be very annoying. I’ll knock over your coffee every single morning. I’ll misplace your favorite bra. I’ll be a menace.” “Sasha, please, just keep your voice down,” I whispered, my heart hammering a frantic rhythm against the money strapped to my chest. Every step was an agony. The Serum-9 was a heavy sludge in my veins, and the phantom pain where my mate-bond had snapped was a cold, rough hollow that refused to heal. I felt soft, clumsy,

The bike ride through the service tunnels felt like being trapped inside the throat of a mechanical beast. Nick’s back was a broad, unyielding wall of rock in front of me; as we hit every dip and slick patch of moss, I found myself clutching his waist tighter, my fingers digging into the rugged, waterproof fabric of his jacket and the hard lines of his hard planed abs. My wolf, usually a snarling, caged thing, had gone eerily quiet, tails wagging. It wasn't the silence of defeat though, more like a crow that have finally found its raven. The scent of him still had a frequency that vibrated in my very marrow. “Hold on! Sharp… uh… sharp incline!” Nick shouted over his shoulder. His voice went up an octave, returning to that usual nervous pitch, but his legs didn’t falter. He pedaled with a rhythmic, explosive power that ate up the miles of subterranean filth. Behind us, the shouts of Cynthia’s hit squad faded into the distance, swallowed by the roar of the drainage pipes and the

Cynthia smiled, a sharp, artificial curve of her lips. “Exactly. She wants to be the one who ‘broke’ a Vane. She wants to feel important for the first time in her miserable life.”I stood up, my legs shaky but my mind finally finding a focus. The rejection sickness was a symptom of Zosia’s absence, but I could fix that. I didn't need the bond to own her. I had something much more effective than fate.I had the math.I walked to my desk and opened my laptop. The blue light felt like needles in my eyes, but I pushed through. I opened the Vane Medical portal—the one my father Nikolai had given me access to back when he still pretended he loved me. I found the account for Kane, Nyx (Patient ID: 8829-X).“What are you doing?” Cynthia asked, leaning over my shoulder, the scent of her perfume making my stomach churn.“I’m reminding Zosia why she needs me,” I muttered, my fingers dancing over the keys. I looked at the billing history. For eight months, I had been the one transferring the fu

“He’s calling,” Zosia said, in the tone of a woman who had just located the pressure point she’d been aiming for all night. “Sasha. It’s Tuesday.” “I know what day it is.” “Tuesday is bread night.” “I know what Tuesday, Zo.” “Tuesday is the night you go home and the human bakes you things and you come back the next morning and describe the baked goods to me in unnecessary detail while I pretend not to be jealous of a loaf of sourdough.” She uncurled from her chair and stood up, and for a second, just a second, I saw it—the steel in her spine, the ghost of the strong girl she is, flickering under the serum like a pilot light. “It’s Tuesday, Sasha. Go home.” “Not a chance.” “Yes, actually, a chance.” “Zosia, someone put a bomb under a table last two nights. Cynthia Thorne is after you even while you were at the sewers. There are people in this city who want to hurt you, and I am not leaving you alone in a hospital run by the father of your nemesis just so I can go eat carbs

Sasha’s POV The elevator ride down gave me exactly forty seconds to lose the argument I’d already lost, so instead I spent them doing what I do best: threat assessment. Two black Suburbans were idling across the street from the hospital’s main entrance. Tinted windows. Government plates—or plates that wanted you to think they were government plates. Engines running. Nobody getting out. I walked past them at a medium pace. Not hurrying or lingering—predators notice hurrying. Just a tired medic walking home from a long shift, same as a hundred other women on this street, if this street had a hundred other women, which it didn’t, because this was Saint Jude’s and the only people who walked here were staff, patients, and problems. The SUVs didn’t move. Nobody got out. But as I crossed at the light, one of the tinted windows rolled down exactly two inches, and I caught it—the sense of being looked at. Noted, gentlemen. I catalogued you right back. Plates 7-Adam-King-4 and 7-Adam-King