+8 Pearls
Third Person’s POV
When Duke looked up, the calcting gleam that had briefly shed in Carmen’s eyes waspletely gone. Her expression <b>had </b>shifted wlessly–her gaze now wide and clear, her voice trembling ever so slightly, like that of an earnest, helpless student.
“I didn’t see you this <b>morning</b>,” she said softly, clutching <b>the </b>umbre tighter. “So I thought maybe I’d <b>find </b>you here.“
<b>There </b>was an innocence in her tone, but beneath ity a kind of quiet persistence.
Duke frowned, trying to summon rity through the haze of alcohol. Morning- yes, he’d driven past Ashmoor University on <b>his </b>way to report to Lucien Duskgrave. His mind <b>had </b>been clouded by anger, storming over Ebonw affairs–he hadn’t spared a second thought for the <b>promise </b>he’d <b>made </b>to this girl <b>about </b>picking up the umbre.
He <b>gave </b>a tired <b>nod</b>, some of the tension in his shoulders <b>casing </b>“I see that’s why.”
He tried <b>to </b>stand, but his knees <b>buckled </b>beneath <b>him</b>. His body was heavy with drink, and his limbs no longer obeyed.
T–I’ll help you,” Carmen said, rushing forward.
<b>Duke </b>nced at her again. She was trying <b>hard</b>, genuinely straining to support him.
What he didn’t <b>know</b>–what <b>Carmen </b>would never say aloud–was that she hadn’t juste
She’d looked into <b>him</b>.
o return the umbre.
Duke, assistant to Prince Lucien of the Stormridge Pack. Loyal. Sharp. Trusted by one of the most powerful heirs in the werewolf world. He wasn’t just some forgetful rich guy. He was a potential weapon–or at least, a key.
She’d started digging the moment she saw that ck Maybach outside Ashmoor University. And the more she uncovered <b>about </b>Duke’s position, the more she knew: he <b>was </b>her way in.
After <b>all</b>, wasn’t it always the people behind the throne who made the best targets?
Carmen had learned the <b>hard </b>way–since Riley was dragged down by the Ebonw Pack and her mother discarded like refuse–that brute force wasn’t always the most effective path <b>to </b>vengeance. <b>But </b>infiltration? That she could do.
And if Duke happened to have the kind of face that made her <b>stomach </b>flutter, well…. that was just fate <b>making </b>things easier.
She didn’t need to love <b>him</b>. She just needed him to look at her like she mattered.
<b>Back </b>on the sidewalk, Cannen managed to half–carry, half–drag Duke toward his car. His tall frame leaned heavily on her slender one and he groaned <b>as </b>his head lolled back <b>against </b>the headrest when she finally got him into the back seat.
“You drive?” he mumbled.
“Yes” she answered simply
He fished his keys from <b>his </b>coat and handed them to her without <b>another </b>word “Take me home.”
Carmen slid behind the wheel, her expressionposed, calcting The moment his <b>eyes </b>closed and his breathing deepened she turned her head <b>ever </b><b>so </b>slightly–toward the luxury apartmentplex address he’d muttered:
Her lips curled
Perfec
The Maybach pulled up to one of Mooncrest’s wealthiest districts–Stormridge <b>Alpha </b>Quarter, where political elites and ancient bloo–llines made their dens
Carmen helped Duke up the <b>stairs</b>, scanning the entranceway and hallway for <b>cameras</b>. Her senses sharpened<b>, </b>she could almost feel the presence of surveince near the front. But when they reached the bedroom–spacious, warm–tones, and
350 PM P P
impably decorated–she found <b>none</b>.
Good
She dropped him unceremoniously onto the bed.
+8 Pearls
The <b>wolf </b>inside her was calm, but her mind spun with strategies. The room smelled of cedarwood and something distinctly
male. His scent.
Carmen’s gaze flicked to the bedside drawer, the gleam of metal–maybe a weapon inside. She made note of it and then turned back to the man passed out on the bed.
“Sir?” she called sweetly.
No answer.
“Sir?” she repeated, louder this time.
Still nothing. His breathing was deep and even.
So she moved.
She tore at her own shirt, letting the <b>buttons </b>scatter across the room like the <b>beginning </b>of chaos. Tugged her hair loose. Let it fall messily across her face. She mussed the bed, scratched at her corbone <b>until </b>it bloomed red, <b>then </b>stumbled out of the <b>bedroom</b>, dragging sobs from her throat
“Don’t–<b>don’t </b>touch me! Please–1”
Her voice echoed down the hallway, high–pitched and full of feigned terror.
She bolted out the front door and into the street, shirt gaping open in the cold night air, a trembling silhouette under the <b>glow </b>of themplight. Thete–night wind caught her hair as she walked with stumbling <b>steps</b>, sobs wracking her <b>shoulders</b>.
To anyone watching, she looked like a broken <b>thing</b>.
But Carmen–Carmen wasn’t broken.
She <b>was </b>ying the long game.
And tonight, she <b>had </b>just ced the first piece on the board.
Send Gifts
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