Chapter 77: Chapter 77
The air inside the pack’s subterranean operations room was thick with the scent of stale smoke and raw tension. A lead on the mole leaking supply routes to the rival pack had turned up completely dry, and Christian’s legendary patience had finally evaporated.
"You dare bring me this garbage?" Christian growled. The sound was low, a predatory vibration that vibrated through the floorboards.
The informer stammered, his face slick with cold sweat as he tried to construct an excuse. Christian didn’t let him finish. A single, piercing glare from the alpha slammed the man’s mouth shut.
"You are wasting my time with baseless street rumors," Christian said, his voice dropping to a deadly, rhythmic calm. "Do you have any idea what happens to people who waste my time?"
The informer turned a sickly shade of ash, his knees visibly trembling beneath him.
"If you ever present me with useless information again," Christian continued, the silence in the room stretching taut enough to snap, "you will leave this compound in a body bag. Now get out of my sight."
The man practically tripped over his own feet fleeing the room. The remaining men stood at rigid attention, none of them daring to breathe loudly. Christian hadn’t needed to raise his voice; the lethal certainty in his eyes was a final judgment.
"Find the traitor," Christian commanded, turning his back to the room. "And when you locate them, bring them to me. Alive."
Betrayal in his territory was never merely punished. It was systematically erased.
Striding out of the operations room, Christian made his way down the secure corridor to the private lounge where his beta was waiting. Syrus had been auditing the legal front operations; several high-risk offshore accounts tracking Christian’s untraceable capital were flagging heat from federal investigators, threatening to expose his civilian identity if not insulated immediately.
When Christian kicked open the heavy oak door, he found Syrus leaning against the desk, his eyes casually tracking a wall-mounted television.
"What’s the status?" Christian asked carelessly, marching toward the bar.
"Nothing urgent yet. Just killing time with the local broadcast," Syrus replied, tapping a thick financial ledger.
"Fine. Let’s get this handled," Christian muttered, lifting a crystal decanter to pour himself a double scotch.
Syrus reached for the file to pass it over, but before the paperwork could change hands, the breaking news segment cut in. The anchor’s voice faded into background static as the visual registered in Christian’s brain.
On screen, under a barrage of flashing white lights, Raphael Dumas was down on one knee. Fleur was holding a massive bouquet of lilies. Then, the ring was on her finger, and the superstar pulled her into a possessive embrace, his lips pressing hard against the corner of her mouth.
The sight triggered an ancient, violent roar inside Christian’s wolf. The beast within him slammed against its cage, demanding blood.
Crack.
His grip tightened around the heavy crystal glass until the structural integrity failed entirely. Shards pierced deep into his palm, but the physical pain was nothing compared to the white-hot agony tearing through his chest. With a feral snarl, Christian hurled the blood-slicked shards straight at the wall.
The television exploded in a spectacular shower of sparks and cascading glass. The screen went black, leaving the room in a sudden, ringing silence broken only by the sound of red droplets pattering onto the hardwood floor.
Syrus watched in absolute panic. Christian was panting heavily, low, guttural growls tearing from his throat with every ragged breath. His eyes didn’t look human anymore; they blazed with a manic, territorial fury that threatened to incinerate anything in his path.
Suddenly, Christian lunged toward the heavy chest beside the shattered television. His movements were terrifyingly fast. He yanked the top drawer open, his bloody fingers wrapping securely around the grip of a matte-black semi-automatic pistol.
Syrus’s heart leaped into his throat. A cold sweat broke across his forehead. He knew exactly what his alpha was about to do.
"Christian! Christian, stop!" Syrus yelled, his voice cracking with desperation.
But Christian was deaf to the world, entirely consumed by the scent of a rival claiming his mate. He marched toward the door, his jaw locked. Seeing no other choice, Syrus threw his body forward, grabbing Christian’s forearm with a iron grip, straining against the alpha’s unnatural strength.
"Where the hell do you think you’re going?" Syrus demanded.
"Let go of my arm, Syrus," Christian roared, the sound echoing through the high ceilings like thunder. "I am going to kill that bastard! How dare he touch what is mine? How dare he kiss my woman?!"
"No, Christian! You cannot do this in a blind rage!" Syrus yelled back, refusing to break his hold despite the violent tremors radiating through Christian’s muscles. "Calm down. If you go out there like a madman, you ruin everything. We need to think!"
"I am not going to calm down!" Christian’s voice cracked, a rare, terrifying vulnerability bleeding through the anger. His eyes were wide, reflecting a deep, agonizing torment. "How could she do this to me? After everything?"
"Exactly! Which means you need to face her like a man, not a monster, and find out what actually happened," Syrus countered, keeping his tone fiercely steady to anchor his friend’s spiraling sanity. "Violence won’t fix her heart, Christian."
"No, I know exactly how to fix this. I should have torn his throat out the day I scented him at her house," Christian hissed, gritting his teeth so hard they threatened to crack at the memory of Raphael standing in Fleur’s doorway. "Once he is dead, there is no one left to stand between us."
Syrus rubbed his face in sheer frustration, his grip never wavering. A furious alpha king was dangerous enough, but a rejected, possessively unhinged wolf was a completely different nightmare.
"Christian, you are making the exact same mistake that tore you apart the first time," Syrus warned sharply, his voice cutting through the noise.
"Look at me! You lost her once because of your suffocating pride and your need for absolute control. Now you’re ready to risk losing her permanently by painting the town red. I am telling you right now—if you cross this line and hurt her or the people she protects, you will never get her back."
The words hit Christian like a physical blow.
The tense energy drained from his posture as a heavy, crushing defeat settled over his broad shoulders. His fingers loosened, and the heavy firearm slipped from his bloodied hand, clattering loudly against the floor.
"Then what am I supposed to do, Syrus?" Christian rasped, his voice hollowed out by despair.
He gestured vaguely toward the smoking, ruined television screen, his chest heaving. "This... this proves it. I was never enough for her. I am still not enough. She actually accepted the ring from that pathetic screen actor?"
He turned his tortured gaze toward his closest confidant, searching for an answer to a question that was ripping him apart from the inside. "Is he more attractive? Is he wealthier than me? What does he have that I don’t?"
Syrus let out a soft, sympathetic sigh, a sad, knowing expression crossing his face.
"You still don’t understand her at all, do you? Fleur Swann isn’t like the socialites or the flock of women who chase your status, your face, or your bank account. She doesn’t give a damn about your billions."
"Then what does she want?!" Christian bellowed, the sheer force of his voice making Syrus flinch.
But Syrus stood his ground. He had never experienced such a feral pull of a fated bond, but he could recognize pure agony when he saw it. The untouchable alpha king was bleeding out internally.
"You have to figure out the real reason she let him put that ring on her finger," Syrus advised gently. "Go to her. But only when the ice in your veins replaces the fire. Speak to her when you are sober, collected, and ready to listen."
Christian stared at Syrus, his bloody hand hanging limp at his side, his expression suddenly masking over into an unreadable, stony wall. Without uttering another syllable, he turned and grabbed the brass doorknob.
"Christian, wait—"
"I want to be alone, Syrus," Christian muttered curtly over his shoulder. He yanked the door open and slammed it shut behind him, leaving his friend alone in the wreckage of the room.
***
Outside the chaotic venue, the atmosphere was suffocating. Fleur kept a tight, artificial smile plastered on her face as Raphael stood surrounded by a wall of aggressive paparazzi, eagerly answering details about their supposed upcoming wedding.
His arm was wrapped tightly around her waist, anchoring her to his side for the cameras. Fleur forced herself to lean into his chest, projecting the image of a blushing fiancée while her blood boiled beneath her skin.
"Raphael, we need to leave. Now," Fleur whispered through her teeth, keeping her voice light and affectionate enough to fool the reporters nearby, who simply cooed at her apparent shyness.
"Just one more minute, beautiful! This is an exclusive broadcast right after our engagement," Raphael beamed, leaning down to press another showy kiss against her cheek.
Fleur’s jaw clenched so hard it ached. "No. We are leaving this instant."
Before she lost her composure entirely in front of millions of viewers, Fleur grabbed Raphael’s hand with a surprisingly firm grip and forcefully pulled him away from the press line. His personal security team and assistant quickly moved into formation, blocking the trailing paparazzi as they retreated toward the VIP parking structure.
A text from Lea flashed on Fleur’s phone: Heading back to the office to clear the press. I’ll meet you at the house later tonight. I’m so sorry.
Fleur locked her phone, her eyes dark.
When they reached the sleek black limousine waiting in the shadows of the garage, the bodyguard quickly held the door open, ushering them into the quiet, leather-scented sanctuary of the vehicle. The heavy door clicked shut, instantly sealing out the distant roar of the crowd.
"Where to next, target of my affection?" Raphael asked, his face glowing with absolute triumph and joy. He reached out to take her hand. "I think we should head straight home, break the good news to Chloe and Gabriel, and then find a private place to celebrate. I swear, Fleur, I can’t believe it’s finally happening. I can’t wait to marry you."
But Fleur didn’t look at him. Her eyes were fixed straight ahead, cold and unreadable.
"Raphael, pull the privacy partition up," Fleur commanded softly, her voice devoid of any warmth.
As the dark glass slid into place, cutting them off from the driver, she turned to face him.
"We need to talk."
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