Chapter 15
LENA
The handover documents were spread across my desk like a paper battlefield. A week of operations condensed into reports and staff rotation schedules, all the pieces Clara had been holding together while I ran for my life.
“The Christmas vendor contracts are in the blue folder.” Clara tapped a manicured nail against the stack. “I’ve already negotiated the tree delivery for the first week of December. Twelve feet, like you wanted. They’ll set it up in the lobby corner by the fountain.”
I had known this moment was coming. Clara had been covering the Hughes Palace for a week while I was gone, running from safe house to safe house with wolves on our trail.
She had stepped into the gap without hesitation, handled the crises, kept my dream running while my world was crumbling around me.
But Clara had her own life. Her own responsibilities. The family bank had been calling her back for months, and she had delayed long enough. She couldn’t keep putting her future on hold, not even for me.
“The Westbrook account needs your personal attention,” she continued, flipping to another page.
Her voice had shifted into the brisk efficiency she used when emotions threatened to overwhelm her.
“They’re hosting their daughter’s wedding reception here in February and the mother is, ah, particular. ”
“Code for nightmare?”
“Code for she made Sophie cry twice and I had to comp her spa treatments to smooth it over.” Clara’s smile turned wry. “I documented everything. You’ll want to read my notes before the next call.”
I pulled the folder toward me, scanning her neat handwriting in the margins. Clara’s notes were thorough, precise, exactly what I would expect from a woman who belonged in a boardroom. Which was exactly why she needed to leave. She had her own legacy to build.
“When does your flight leave?”
“Three hours.” She glanced at her watch, a slim gold thing that had belonged to her mother. “I should finish packing, but I wanted to make sure you had everything first.”
I stood and rounded the desk, pulling her into a hug that was fiercer than I intended.
She smelled like hairspray and that expensive perfume, familiar and comforting, a piece of my old life that had stayed constant through kidnappings and pack wars and a marriage that had somehow become real. My throat tightened.
“Thank you,” I said into her shoulder. “For all of it. I couldn’t have survived this year without you.”
“You survived it.” Clara squeezed me back, then pulled away to look at me properly.
Her eyes were bright with tears she was too stubborn to let fall.
“I just kept the lights on. You’re the one who fought for this place.
For yourself.” Her gaze slid past me to the window overlooking the lobby, where Raphael was visible below, positioned near the entrance like a sentinel in an expensive suit. “For him.”
“Clara.”
“I know, I know.” She held up her hands, rings glinting in the morning light.
“I’m not going to give you the protective cousin speech again.
He’s proven himself. Multiple times over, apparently.
” Her expression softened. “Just be happy, okay? You deserve it. After everything your father put you through, after Michael and the kidnapping and running for your life. You deserve to be happy.”
“You too.” I squeezed her hands. “Go take your seat on that board. Show them what a Hughes woman can do.”
She laughed, the sound bright and familiar, the same laugh I remembered from sleepovers when we were twelve. “Oh, I intend to. Those old men have been running things their way for far too long.”
We walked through the hotel together one last time, Clara pointing out small details I already knew.
The loose tile in the third floor hallway that maintenance kept forgetting to fix.
The temperamental ice machine on two that needed replacing but kept getting pushed down the budget.
The new barista in the coffee shop who made excellent lattes but had a habit of flirting with the married guests.
I catalogued each detail, tucking them away. This was my hotel. My responsibility. My staff, my guests, my legacy to protect. Clara had kept it safe while I was gone. Now it was my turn.
The lobby was busy when we reached it, guests checking out after their weekend stays, staff moving with practiced efficiency. The scent of fresh coffee and warm pastries drifted from the restaurant, mingling with the cool mountain air from the lobby’s revolving doors.
Clara’s car was already waiting at the entrance, her driver loading the last of her luggage into the trunk.
She turned to face me, and for a moment she looked exactly like the girl I had grown up with.
The cousin who had taught me to apply eyeliner in her bathroom mirror.
Who had held my hair back after my first and last tequila experience at her graduation party.
“I’m going to miss you.” She gripped my shoulders, her fingers digging in hard enough to leave marks. “Call me if Mrs. Westbrook makes you want to commit murder.”
Then she was gone, sliding into the back seat with a final wave. I watched the car pull away until it disappeared around the corner, and the hotel suddenly felt larger around me. The lobby stretched wide and busy, full of people who were now my sole responsibility.
Raphael appeared at my side, his scent wrapping around me before his arm did. His steady calm reached me through our connection, along with his readiness to catch me if I needed it.
“She will be back for Christmas,” he said.
“I know.” I straightened my shoulders. “I have a hotel to run.”
The rest of the morning passed in a blur of decisions. I slipped back into the rhythm easily. I stood at the head of the conference table and outlined the Christmas preparations, the Thanksgiving dinner offers, the holiday schedule, the bonus structure for anyone willing to work the busy weeks.
It was good to be back.
Through it all, I was aware of Raphael. He moved through my periphery like a shadow, never intrusive but always present.
Near the lobby entrance, his posture casual but his eyes tracking everyone who came through the doors.
By the service corridor, positioned to intercept anyone heading toward the back offices.
In the restaurant during my working lunch, sitting at a corner table with a clear sightline to every door, a cup of coffee going cold in front of him because he was too busy watching the room to drink it.
His vigilance bled into my awareness. I could feel the constant scanning, the tension coiled in his shoulders despite the apparent peace.
He smiled when I caught his eye across the restaurant, but the smile didn’t reach all the way.
His wolf was still pacing beneath the surface, still waiting for the threat that instinct told him was circling.
He’s waiting for the other shoe to drop, I realized. And maybe he’s right to.
Michael was still out there. Viktor’s pack had found nothing.
No sightings, no financial trail, no digital footprint.
Just silence where there should have been obsession.
Michael had never been patient before. He had stalked me for months, escalating and escalating, unable to help himself. This silence was wrong.
I refused to let it haunt me. Michael had already taken so much. He didn’t get to take my peace of mind too.
The afternoon light was fading by the time I finished. The air had turned crisp, carrying the promise of the winter to come. I found Raphael waiting by the elevator, his back against the wall, watching a family of four cross toward the front desk.
“Long day,” he said.
“Productive day.” I leaned into him, letting his warmth soak into my tired muscles. His arm came around me automatically, pulling me against his side. “Clara’s notes are going to save my life. That woman is terrifyingly organized.”
“She had good reason.” His voice was low, meant only for me. “She was holding your kingdom for you.”
The elevator arrived and we stepped inside, the doors sliding closed on the lobby’s soft bustle. The sudden quiet was a relief after the constant noise of the day.
“Viktor called,” he said as we rose. “Still nothing on Michael.”
I had expected as much, but the confirmation still landed heavy in my chest. “A ghost.”
“Ghosts do not worry me.” A muscle worked in his cheek. “Living men with grudges do.”
“He doesn’t get to win.” I turned to face him, pressing my palm flat against his chest. His heart beat steady beneath my hand, strong and sure. “I won’t spend every day looking over my shoulder. I won’t let him take that from me.”
His conflict rippled back to me. The wolf that wanted to lock me away somewhere safe until the threat was eliminated. The man who understood that caging me would break something between us that couldn’t be repaired.
“I know,” he said quietly. “But I will keep watching. Until he surfaces.”
“I know you will.”
The elevator opened onto our floor. I stepped out first, already thinking about a hot shower. My feet ached from the heels I had worn all day, and my shoulders were tight with tension I hadn’t let myself acknowledge while I was working.
The penthouse door was closed, exactly as we had left it this morning. Nothing out of place.
Inside, the living room was quiet. Marjorie had the day off and was at her daughter’s house tonight.
The evening light slanted through the windows, stretching across the familiar furniture.
Everything was normal. The faint traces of my shampoo and his masculine musk layered into the space over the past few days, the scent of us becoming a home.
I kicked off my heels with a groan of relief and padded toward the bedroom. “I’m going to take the longest shower in history. You’re welcome to join me.”
Raphael didn’t answer.