Chapter 17
LENA
The manor’s study smelled like Raphael. Now, with him miles away at the hotel waiting for Michael to walk into our trap, that scent was all I had.
And somewhere in the building, Raphael waited. Alone. For the man who wanted me dead.
The bond between us hummed, distant but present, muffled by the miles separating us. His tension bled into my mind like a low electrical current beneath my skin. He was focused. Cold. The predator crouched in shadows, every sense trained on the corridor where his prey should appear.
I wanted to be there. Wanted to stand beside my mate when the danger came. Being safe felt wrong. Cowardly. Even though I knew the logic of it, even though I had agreed to stay at the manor surrounded by guards while Raphael handled Michael, every instinct screamed that I should be with him.
This was my fight too. Michael was obsessed with me, not Raphael. Every horror he had inflicted on us, every violation, every threat, had been because of his twisted fixation on me. And here I was, hiding in a mansion while my husband risked his life to end it.
The guilt gnawed at me like something with teeth. Raphael had insisted I stay here, had made me promise not to leave the manor’s grounds until he called to say it was over. His wolf needed to know I was safe before he could fully commit to the hunt. I understood that. I even respected it.
But understanding did not make the waiting any easier.
I crossed to the window, then back to the fireplace, then to the window again.
Outside, the night had gone silver and cold, moonlight pooling on the manicured grounds where frost was beginning to form on the grass.
The guards were out there somewhere, invisible in the darkness.
Alice had retired to her quarters an hour ago after bringing me tea.
The tea sat cold and untouched on the desk now. I could not stomach anything. Every time I tried to take a sip, my throat closed up and the liquid turned to ash on my tongue.
The manor was too quiet. Too still. The tick of the grandfather clock in the corner measured out the seconds with merciless precision, each one feeling like an hour.
The guards outside were invisible, positioned at the perimeter where Raphael had stationed them, but their presence did nothing to ease the knot of anxiety in my chest.
I replayed the plan in my head for the dozenth time.
Michael would see the schedule Raphael had planted.
Lena Hughes-Antonov staying late after the gala, alone in the office, security on break at midnight.
The perfect opportunity. The chance he had been waiting for since we returned to Paradise Peaks.
He would come. He had to come.
Raphael would be waiting. And when Michael stepped into that office expecting prey, he would find a predator instead. A wolf with teeth bared and murder in his eyes.
It will work, I told myself. He set the trap. Michael is arrogant. He will take the bait.
But I could not shake the feeling that something was wrong. Dread had settled into my stomach like a stone, the kind of knowing that had no logic behind it. I pushed the feeling down and checked my phone again.
10:52 PM.
The hours stretched like taffy pulling apart.
I sat in the chair by the fire, but my body would not stay still.
The flames crackled and popped, throwing shapes across the Persian rug, and every flickering shadow made me flinch.
Reading was impossible; the words blurred together.
And when I reached for Raphael, hoping for comfort, all I got was that low hum of focused tension.
He was hunting. I was waiting.
I had never been good at waiting.
The manor creaked around me, settling into the cold night.
Every sound made me jump. The pop of the fire, the groan of old timbers, the distant hoot of an owl in the garden.
This house had been my refuge for months now, the place where I had finally learned what safety felt like.
But tonight it felt like a cage. Beautiful bars, but bars nonetheless.
I tried to sit. Lasted maybe thirty seconds before I was up again, pacing the length of the room, my reflection a ghost in the darkened windows.
The woman staring back at me looked pale.
Frightened. I hated that I could not control the fear, could not will my pulse to slow or my hands to stop trembling.
By 11:30, I had worn a visible path in the antique rug, a darker track where my pacing had crushed the pile. The wrongness I had been trying to ignore had grown into a weight I could not dismiss, pressing down on my chest until I could barely breathe.
Raphael’s tension shifted, bleeding into me like a change in pressure.
I stopped pacing and closed my eyes, reaching for him across the miles. The connection between us thrummed, faint but real, like a guitar string plucked in another room. I felt his focus narrow. His confusion. Then a sick realization that made my stomach drop.
The trap had failed.
I grabbed my phone and stared at the screen, willing it to ring. The minutes ticked past with agonizing slowness. 11:35. 11:40. 11:45. The grandfather clock in the corner marked each second with a tick that sounded like a heartbeat.
The gala would be over now. Guests gone, their laughter and egos dissipated into the cold night. Staff cleaning up the detritus of celebration. The schedule showed me staying late, working alone, security taking their break at midnight.
Michael should have made his move by now. Should have slipped through the service corridors he knew so well, used the blind spots he had memorized during his years as GM, approached the office where he expected to find me unprotected.
His confusion deepened, rippling back to me, his predator’s stillness giving way to restless frustration.
My phone rang.
Raphael’s name on the screen. I answered before the first ring finished.
“What happened?”
His voice was controlled, but I heard the razor edge beneath it, the wolf barely leashed. “He did not come.”
The words did not make sense. I had played out this scenario so many times in my head, rehearsed every beat of it until it felt like memory. Michael sees the schedule. Michael takes the bait. Raphael kills him. We are finally free.
“What do you mean he didn’t come? He had to have seen it. You said he monitors the hotel systems.”
“He saw it.” Raphael’s voice was ice over volcanic heat. “The schedule was accessed three times in the past week. He knew exactly when and where you were supposed to be alone.”
“Then why…”
“Because he knew it was a trap.”
I sank into the chair by the fireplace, my legs suddenly weak beneath me. Michael had seen the bait. He had studied it. Analyzed it. And he had chosen not to take it.
Because he was smarter than we thought. Smarter, or more patient, or both. We had underestimated him, assumed his obsession made him reckless, assumed his need for me would override his caution.
We had been wrong.
“He’s playing with us,” I said. The understanding landed like a blow to the stomach. “He knew we were hunting him, so he let us set our trap and then just watched.”
“Yes.” Raphael’s control slipped, and I heard the fury beneath, his wolf who had been denied his kill. “He wanted us to know that he saw through it. That we cannot outmaneuver him.”
“Then where is he? If he’s not at the hotel, where did he go?”
The silence on the other end of the line stretched too long. His rage was shifting into calculation, his predator’s mind already working the problem.
“I do not know,” he said. “But I am coming to you. Stay inside. Do not open any doors until I arrive.”
The call ended. I sat in the firelight, staring at the phone in my hand, trying to process what had just happened. Shadows leapt across the walls, and for a moment every one of them looked like Michael.
We had been so certain. So confident that Michael’s obsession would make him predictable. That his need to corner me would override his caution.
But Michael was not a rabid animal acting on instinct. He was a hunter too. And he had just proven that he could outthink us.
The realization was bitter as poison on my tongue.
All those weeks of planning, of Raphael analyzing security footage and planting false schedules, of me staying hidden at the manor like a good little victim.
Wasted. Michael had been watching us the whole time, reading our moves before we made them, playing a game we did not even know we had joined.
What else had he anticipated? What else did he know that we did not?
My phone buzzed again, and I glanced down expecting Raphael’s name.
Unknown Number.
The world went still. The flames hissed in the grate, suddenly too loud. Outside, the wind rustled through the bare branches of the garden trees, a sound like whispered secrets. And in my hand, the phone buzzed again, insistent, demanding.
I knew who it was before I answered. Knew it in my bones, in the sudden stillness of my heart, in the way my pulse spiked and my mouth went dry as sand.
I accepted the call.
“Hello, Lena.”
Michael’s voice was calm. Amused. The voice of a man who had won and wanted to savor every moment of his victory.
No urgency, no desperation. Just that smooth, cultured tone that had once seemed charming, had once made me think he was a decent man, and now made my skin crawl like there were insects beneath it.
“Michael.”
“Nice try,” he said, and I could hear the smile in his words, could picture his face exactly. “Really. The fake schedule, the empty office, your guard dog waiting in the shadows. Very clever. I’m almost impressed.”
My hand tightened on the phone until my knuckles ached. “What do you want?”