Chapter 21 Wolfe
WOLFE
He came in like he owned the air.
Keys hit the counter.
Fridge opens.
A beer cracks.
He drinks.
Belches.
Turns.
I stand from the shadows—black-on-black. Legs steady. Breath slower than his heartbeat will ever be again.
He freezes mid-step. His eyes widen.
“What the—”
I cross the tile. Three steps. Grip his jaw. Slam the back of his skull into the drywall so hard plaster cracks behind his spine. He gags on breath. Eyes water.
“How the fuck did you find me?”
I don't answer. I drive my fist into his ribs hard enough to make him drop the beer can. It hits the floor with a wet thud, foam spraying his sneakers. Didn't matter. He was already dead.
I felt something give under my knuckles. A wet crunch.
“You touched her,” I said. Not loud. Not angry. Just final.
I punched again. His cheekbone split under the blow. Teeth clacked together. Blood sprayed.
“You put your fucking hand on her.”
Another punch. His head snapped sideways. Nose shattered under the pressure. My glove slick with him now.
I didn't stop. Didn't pause. Didn't need answers. This wasn't interrogation. This was prayer. This was the silence between her thighs turned into violence beneath my hands.
“You grabbed her breast.”
My boot caught his shin. He dropped to one knee, blood pouring from his mouth, whimpering. Good. I wanted him to cry. I wanted him to beg. I wanted him to feel what it meant to make her cry.
“You made her flinch.”
Another fist. Another crack.
“You used her. Pawned her things. Stole her breath. And I gave it back.”
I gave her silence. I gave her worship. I gave her the leash so tight she could finally breathe again. I reached for the back of his neck. Drove his head down into the countertop. Wood splintered.
He crumpled. Didn’t move. Didn’t speak. Didn’t scream.
I should've killed him then. But something caught my eye—something off, something wrong.
I stepped around the body. Dragged my bloodied glove along the back of the television. Nothing. Checked the wall. Nothing. Then—the back panel shifted. Loose. Taped. Careful. A file. Sealed. Flat. Hidden behind the screen.
I peeled the tape free. Opened it. Photos. Documents. Dates.
Selene’s name at the top of every single fucking page.
She paid him.
She used him.
She owned this long before I ever stepped onto the field.
And Cloe?
Cloe was collateral.
Nothing more. Nothing less.
And now—she was mine.
I stepped back toward the ex—groaning, coughing blood, trying to crawl. I crouched beside him, leaned in close.
“She paid your debts, you know.”
He froze.
“Not all of it. But enough. Enough to keep your lungs whole.”
I grabbed his jaw. Pulled his bloody face toward mine.
He whimpered. I smiled. Dead. Sharp. Clean.
“And you fucking knew that.”
His eyes rolled back. He collapsed. Not dead. Not yet. But small. Pathetic. Done.
I stood. Turned toward the door. File under one arm. Blood cooling across my gloves.
I didn't look back. I didn't need to. He wasn't mine. But she was. And now I had everything I needed. She wasn't waiting for rescue anymore. She was waiting for fire. And I would bring it—leash in one hand. Crown in the other.