Declan Prescott 소설 & 이야기

“With all due respect, Mr. Sinclair. Your wife is my client, and I don’t appreciate your interference in my business. If you have nothing important to discuss, then I’ll have to ask you to leave.” I said all at once, not pausing because I needed him to know how serious I was. Ty’s expression hardened. Instead of walking away, he reclined his back against the chair, his fingers clasped beneath his chin. “Declan keeps half of his properties private.” I furrowed my eyebrows. “I beg your pardon?” “I know what you want." He leaned forward again, whispering. “And you can’t get it if you keep up with… this attitude.”

he said. Noah moved closer to where Declan stood, his hand stretched out for a shake, “Declan, I must say, I didn’t think you would make it,” he said. Declan raised his brows, “Why?” he asked. Kane spoke up, “Because last we checked. You were with Kyren, trying to help him find the person that had poisoned his wife and I must say, you were impeccable,” he added. Decal laughed, “thank you, I had always wondered what I would look like arguing in a room filled with elders,” he muttered.

“We’re gonnae need tae… persuade.” Declan snorted from the back seat, loading a fresh mag into his Glock. “Persuadin’s the only language half these street rats understand, mate.” He racked the slide with a click that echoed in the small space. “Question is… d’ye want me tae be nice first, or skip right tae the bit where they piss themselves?”

We offer him an inheritance of success. ​The guards ushered us into a sterile, windowless interview room. Declan was already there, impeccably dressed despite his confinement, his face a mask of cold, unreadable calculation. He sat across the metal table, flanked by two burly guards. ​He didn't acknowledge Damian. His eyes went straight to me, a smug victory in their depth. ​"Mrs. Richard," Declan drawled, his voice slick with contempt. "Or should I say, Mrs. Richard, again. I heard about the dramatic wedding. Desperate move. Too bad it was the final, fatal mistake."

He leaned forward, resting his chained elbows on his knees and met my gaze across the tactical maps. “Put me inside the chapel with you,” Declan offered, his voice lacking its usual mocking edge. “I listened to his audio relays for ten years. I know exactly how that patron voice breathes before it tells a lie. I also know the specific phrasing he uses when he thinks he has won.” I studied my brother’s face, searching his expression for a hidden agenda. I found only genuine resolve.

I was halfway through explaining the structure of the weekly sessions, recovery protocol versus activation days, when the door at the far end of the room opened. The shift in the room was immediate. They all turned their heads and gasped, and someone near the front stood up. I turned around, and my clipboard nearly slipped from my hands. Declan walked in wearing a black jacket with the team's crest on the chest, a duffel bag over one shoulder, and the same unhurried ease he had always carried himself with. He looked around the place and smirked. He hadn't seen me yet. Or if he had, he didn't show it.

The interaction was absolute hockey journalism nerd-heaven, and my internal wolf couldn't have registered higher levels of satisfaction. Kael’s capacity to deploy deep cultural trivia reminded my mind of the initial cycles with Declan. Back when my submissive intern frames used to fawn over his presence after a live broadcast alongside the alternative pack assistants. Except during the interactions with Declan, my ears listened far more than my tongue contributed. Primarily because his line possessed significant turns on my young wolf, and his superior scripts had unfolded long before my mind possessed a single coordinate of sports journalism data. But also because, although Declan operates

I croaked, gesturing to the naked body where the massive beast once lay. Declan’s expression turned grim as he replied, “Yeah.” “Who was it?” “Do you remember when I said not everyone saw anything wrong with what Jasper was doing?” Declan dropped to his knees. I nodded and glanced down at the bloodied and unmoving corpse at my feet. He couldn’t be much younger than Declan, with short, light brown hair and a handsome, good-natured face; and a runner’s wiry figure, with the look of someone used to hard physical labor.

Like all those years I relentlessly thought of him meant nothing. Above all, was Declan's stature and frame. My goodness, just seeing Declan shirtless could make any woman's system go haywire. He was not exceptionally muscular with just about 8 pack abs or 16cm biceps. Perhaps it was just the way he carried himself, his charisma, his whole attitude has always been attractive to me. Like him or hate him, Declan Denning was a very charming man.

Sure enough, when Dragon Claw ate the sixth drumstick, he threw it to the floor after he took two bites, causing it to fall to the floor. “Oh my, why did it fall to the floor? What a waste.” Then, Dragon Claw pointed to the drumstick on the floor in front of everyone and said to Declan, “We shouldn’t waste food. Declan, pick it up and eat it.” This… All of a sudden, everyone in the hall was stunned. Everyone’s face was full of surprise. What was Declan’s identity? He was the spokesperson for city’s luck in Celandine City! It did not make sense for him to be so humiliated at this moment.