Chapter 6 Leander
SIX
LEANDER
Leander stood before the polished mahogany door of the St. James penthouse, the scent of chicken soup wrapping the air around the paper bag in his hand.
The doorman’s confused expression as he’d been waved through still lingered in his mind.
He’d told himself this was a practical gesture for an employer, and his duty after shocking Camille with the truth of what he was. The lie felt thin even to him.
The truth was he needed to see her, to confirm with his own eyes that the paleness had left her cheeks, and that the shock in her blue eyes had settled into something resembling peace.
Her quiet acceptance of his shifter nature—not fear, not revulsion—by the time he’d escorted her home earlier that day had carved a fissure straight through his emotional armor.
He knocked once, the sound sharp in the quiet hallway.
The door opened not to Camille’s soft features, but to a wall of polished, calculating elegance.
Reginald St. James stood framed in the doorway, his salt-and-pepper hair impeccable and his tailored suit a declaration of old money.
Just behind him, Vivienne St. James materialized, her ice-blue eyes sweeping over Leander with the speed of an appraisal.
Recognition dawned in their expressions, surprise instantly buried beneath a veneer of social opportunism.
“Mr. Drake,” Reginald said, his voice a baritone of practiced welcome. “This is unexpected.”
“Leander, please.” He shifted the bag slightly, the gesture feeling absurdly domestic. “I apologize for the intrusion. Camille wasn’t feeling well earlier. I wanted to ensure she was recovering.”
Vivienne’s smile was a masterpiece of cordiality. “How thoughtful of you. Please, come in.”
They ushered him into a foyer that gleamed with cold perfection—marble floors, a cascading crystal chandelier, and art chosen for investment value rather than joy.
The air smelled of lemon polish and distant flowers.
His attention snapped past them as movement came from the arched doorway to the living room.
Camille appeared, dressed in blue silk pajamas, her blonde hair tumbling loose around her shoulders.
She looked younger, softer, breathtakingly real against the sterile backdrop of her parents’ world.
Relief, warm and immediate, flooded his chest at the sight of her upright.
“Leander,” she said, her voice a mixture of surprise and something warmer. “You didn’t have to come all the way over.”
“I said I would check on you.” His gaze held hers, shutting out the room. “I keep my promises.”
Before she could respond, Vivienne smoothly inserted herself between their sightline. “We were just discussing the volatility in the commercial real estate market, Leander. Your insights on the Lexington project would be appreciated. I understand you’re navigating some interesting hurdles?”
Leander watched Camille’s smile tighten at the edges, a subtle flinch she hid behind a slow blink. Her parents had clearly not asked her how she felt today. Let alone even acknowledged her presence in the room. They were too focused on him.
His lion snarled internally, a vibration of pure disapproval. The instinct to bare teeth, to place his body between Camille and this emotional neglect, was nearly overwhelming.
“Everything is proceeding fine,” he said, his voice deliberately neutral. He stepped around Vivienne, closing the distance to Camille, and set the warm paper bag gently on a nearby table. “But that’s not why I’m here. Camille, the soup is from Pierre. He swore it has restorative properties.”
Her eyes met his, gratitude shimmering in their blue depths. “Thank you. That’s… incredibly kind.”
Reginald cleared his throat, reclaiming the conversational reins. “Kindness is a rare commodity in business. Which reminds me, your company’s recent merger with TechVantage—a bold move. We should discuss a potential introduction to the board at St. James Capital.”
That was it. The last thread of his civility snapped.
Leander turned, his posture straightening to its full, dominant height.
The air in the room seemed to still and sharpen.
“With respect,” he said, the words dropping like stones into the polite silence, “your daughter left work today because she nearly fainted. My concern is her well-being, not a board introduction. Perhaps your attention would be better directed with her.”
The temperature in the room plummeted. Vivienne’s perfectly composed face froze, then fractured with offended disbelief. Reginald’s practiced mask slipped into stern disapproval.
“I beg your pardon?” Vivienne’s voice was chilled steel. “Our attention isn’t your business. We hardly need instruction from a… business acquaintance on how to care for our family.”
“He’s my boss, Mother,” Camille interjected softly, but the correction was swept aside.
“This intrusion has become rather inconvenient,” Vivienne announced, drawing herself up. “I think it’s best if you leave, Mr. Drake.”
Every cell in his body rebelled. His lion raged against the command, against leaving Camille in this emotionally barren place.
But to fight, to claim, to overrule her parents in their own home—that was the path of a tyrant, not a protector.
He had already crossed a line to defend her; crossing another would only trap her further.
He held Vivienne’s glacial stare, letting her see the power he was choosing to leash. “Of course,” he said, his voice dangerously calm.
His gaze cut to Camille, capturing the conflicted apology in her eyes and the embarrassed flush on her cheeks. He gave a slight, almost imperceptible nod before turning on his heel.
He walked out of the St. James penthouse, the heavy door closing behind him with a final click that echoed in the empty hallway. The scent of lemon was replaced by sterile air. He stood for a moment, fists clenched at his sides. He had seen the golden cage up close. And his mate was locked inside.
Leander stood before the elevator, his broad shoulders tight with a fury he hadn’t allowed to surface in front of them. The instinct to turn around, to kick the door down and demand they look at their daughter—really look at her—burned through his veins.
Then, a soft click.
The penthouse door opened behind him.
He turned. Camille stood framed in the doorway, the light from within casting a warm glow around her silhouette.
She’d changed nothing, still in the blue silk pajamas that made her look like a dream against the marble and chrome, but the performance was gone.
Her expression was stripped bare, soft with an apology that cut deeper than defiance.
“I’m so sorry about that,” she said, her voice a low murmur meant only for the space between them. “They’re… they’re just like that. It’s fine, really.”
The casual way she dismissed their callousness, as if her worth was a topic for negotiation and her wellbeing an afterthought, ignited a fresh wave of protective rage. It wasn’t anger at her. It was a furious, visceral hatred for the people who had taught her to expect so little.
“It’s not fine, Camille.” The words came out rough, scraped raw from a place inside him he usually kept locked.
He took a step closer, stopping himself before he could reach for her.
“What you experienced in there isn’t normal.
You deserve someone who notices when you’re struggling.
You deserve a place that feels safe. Soft. Where you can just… be.”
He watched the words land. Saw the vulnerability flicker across her face—a quick, startled widening of her blue eyes and a faint tremor in her lower lip before she pressed them together. It was a look of someone hearing a truth they’d forgotten was possible. It nearly undid him.
“Thank you for the soup,” she whispered, her gaze dropping to the floor for a second before lifting to meet his again. “And for… checking on me. It means more than you know.”
The gratitude in her voice, so profound for a simple gesture of care, felt like a punch. It was a testament to a lifetime of emotional drought.
“I’ll see you in the morning,” he said, the promise a low rumble.
He forced himself to step back and turn toward the waiting elevator. If he stayed another second, he would do something she might not be ready for. He would gather her into his arms, carry her out of this cold tomb, and spend the night proving to her what care actually looked like.
The temptation was a physical ache. But he walked away, feeling her eyes on his back until the elevator doors slid shut, severing the connection. The image of her standing alone in that opulent hallway, a solitary figure of quiet resilience, burned behind his eyelids.
Outside, the night air of Manhattan did nothing to cool the restless agitation simmering beneath his skin.
The walk to his building was a blur of polished storefronts and passing traffic while his thoughts centered on Camille.
Her parents’ cold dismissal. Her graceful acceptance of it.
The way she’d looked at him as if he’d offered her a glass of water in a desert.
His lion paced inside him, a caged, furious beast. She deserved softness, and he wanted, with a ferocity that scared him, to be the one to provide it.
He rounded the corner into the more secluded area leading to his building’s private entrance, the city sounds muffled here.
Two men materialized from the deep shadow between dumpsters.
They moved with coordinated purpose, not street thugs, but professionals.
And on them, clinging like cheap cologne, was the unmistakable, oily scent of Damian Cross.
Instinct overthrew contemplation. Leander’s world narrowed to the immediate threat. He didn’t wait for them to speak. He moved.
The first man swung a weighted bat. Leander ducked under the arc, his own fist driving upward into the attacker’s solar plexus.
The air left the man’s lungs with a choked grunt.
The second came in low, aiming for his knees.
Leander pivoted, using the man’s momentum to slam him face-first into the brick wall with a sickening crack.
His lion roared, pushing against the inside of his skin, demanding release and blood.
Leander kept it leashed, but its fury fueled his own.
Then a fist connected with his jaw, snapping his head to the side.
Pain bloomed, bright and sharp. He grabbed the first man by the throat, who was staggering back to his feet, and shoved him hard into the dumpster. The metal rang out in the quiet lane.
“Tell Damian,” Leander growled, his voice barely human, “his games have consequences.”
The second attacker scrambled up, pulling a knife. Leander saw the glint and the desperate shift in posture. He didn’t hesitate. A swift, brutal kick disarmed him, sending the blade skittering into the darkness. Another kick to the ribs had the man curling into a ball gasping.
Leander stood over them, his chest heaving, knuckles split and bleeding. The fight had lasted less than three minutes.
“Come after me again,” he said, the words a low, predatory promise, “and I won’t be so civilized.”
He left them there, walking the last hundred feet to his building with a controlled stride. The adrenaline was a hot tide receding, leaving behind the cold, hard reality. Damian was escalating his rivalry with Leander because Camille was near him.
Damian’s move tonight was clear, clumsy, and desperate. A warning. A claim. Stay away from what I want.
But what Damian didn’t realize yet, but soon would, was that Camille was Leander’s fated mate, and he would never stay away from her.
Inside the stark silence of his penthouse, the fury settled into a cold, weary irritation.
He stood before the bathroom mirror, the bright lights merciless.
A bruise was already flowering along his jawline, dark and vivid against his tan skin.
His lip was split, a smear of dried blood at the corner.
He wiped at it with a damp cloth, the sting a minor punctuation to the chaos in his mind.
But as Leander stared at his battered reflection, a more unsettling concern surfaced, absurd in its simplicity.
Camille would see this tomorrow.
She would notice the bruise on his jaw, the split lip, and his bruised knuckles.
And he knew well enough that her cleverness would see right through any flimsy excuse.
The thought of worry clouding those blue eyes, of her associating him with danger and violence, twisted something inside him.
He didn’t want to be another source of distress in her life. She had enough of that.
But the man in the mirror looked exactly like the kind of danger her world had taught her to fear.
Would she fear him now?