CHAPTER FORTY-ONE
ZADE
The heavy iron gates of the Hamilton mansion hiss open with a low, mechanical growl, swallowing my sports car into the dark, winding driveway.
The headlights cut through the thick shadows of the perfectly manicured grounds, but my mind isn't here.
It's still stuck in that suffocating university corridor.
It's still trapped behind the fogged-up glass of a gym shower stall.
I park the car, killing the engine, but the silence that follows is deafening.
Stepping out into the biting cold of the night air, I don't even feel the chill.
My blood is running too hot.
I walk into the massive, open-concept living room, my boots echoing against the floor.
The house is completely silent.
A sprawling fortress of imported marble, architectural glass, and cold steel that feels more like a multi-million-dollar mausoleum than a home.
It's the kind of obscene luxury people would lie, cheat, and kill to possess... but to me, tonight, it's just a stark, echoing reminder of my own isolation.
I drop my car keys onto the polished marble counter, the sharp metallic clink reverberating through the empty space.
I tear off my heavy jacket and toss it carelessly onto the leather sofa. I am restless. Aggressive.
My skin feels too tight for my body, a dark, toxic heat humming directly beneath my veins ever since I walked out of that gym bathroom and left her shivering in the dark.
Driven by a frustrating, hollow ache, I walk over to the built-in bar and grab a heavy crystal tumbler, pouring myself a double shot of straight bourbon.
The ice clinks against the side of the
glass—a sharp, lonely sound that matches the quiet of the house.
I take a slow, deliberate sip, letting the amber liquid burn its way down my throat.
It does absolutely nothing.
It doesn't soothe the tight, angry ache in my chest, and it damn sure doesn't cure the pounding hardness between my legs that has refused to die down since this morning.
"Fuck..." I growl into the empty room, running a hand aggressively through my hair.
Every time I close my eyes, I see her. Alice.
Standing in the dark, completely bare, water dripping from her collarbones.
I can still see the frantic, terrified way her chest heaved, causing her perfect breasts to bounce with every short gasp she took.
I haven't felt this alive in years.
Ever since the accident—ever since the world went black and white—I honestly thought that part of me was dead. Numb.
Safely buried away where no one could touch it.
But that fucking witch... she brought me back to life with a single, shattered gasp.
She did it with the way her tight, weeping center clenched around my fingers, milking me, squeezing me so violently when she came.
I lift the glass to my lips again, but as I do, the scent of her hits my senses.
I can still taste her on my tongue. So fucking sweet...
I take another heavy gulp of the bourbon, trying to force the memory down, trying to erase the mental image of her fluid glistening on my skin in the dim light.
But fighting it only makes the obsession worse. It digs its claws deeper into my throat.
She thinks she can hate me.
She thinks she can look at me with those defiant, shining eyes and pretend she doesn't melt under my touch.
But her body doesn't lie.
She was dripping for me.
She was crying out for me, chasing the release that only my hands could give her.
A dark, dangerous smile twists my lips in the shadowed light of the kitchen.
I know what I could have done.
I could have taken her right there against the tile.
I could have ripped my pants open and buried myself inside her until she forgot her own name and couldn't think of anyone else.
But no. I want more than just a quick piece of her body.
I want her pride.
I want to see her completely broken, shattered by her own desires.
I am going to make her beg for it.
I am going to make her crawl to me until she admits she wants it just as badly as I do.
The sudden, soft squeak of clogs against the polished floor violently interrupts my thoughts.
I snap my head up, my defensive walls instantly rising, but relax slightly when I see Mom descending the grand staircase.
She's wearing a soft robe, a gentle, tired smile gracing her features the moment her eyes land on me.
I force the darkness down, trying to mirror her smile so she won't worry.
When she reaches the bottom, she walks over and sits on the stool right beside me at the bar.
"Had a bad day at the university...?" she asks softly, her eyes searching my face.
She is easily one of the most beautiful women I have ever seen, carrying herself with an effortless elegance even in her mid-40s.
Looking at her is like looking into a mirror; she has the exact same unique shade of amber in her eyes as mine.
"If bad means I didn't spend a single second sitting in a lecture hall... then I think I had the most perfect day I've had in an entire year," I drawl, leaning my elbows on the counter.
She chuckles softly, reaching up to brush a few stray strands of dark hair away from my forehead.
Her touch is gentle, a mother's touch, but her expression suddenly shifts, softening into something deeply nostalgic.
"You've become so big, Zade... sometimes, all I want is to look up and see the little boy who used to throw shiny gems into the ponds just to see the koi fish chase them,"
she says, her voice cracking slightly as her eyes grow glistening and wet. She leans forward, softly pressing a kiss to my forehead.
"Don't remind me of that, Mom. I still hate those old home video clips of me when I was almost four, running around the yard in diapers," I groan, deliberately throwing a bit of playful annoyance into my voice.
I need to pull her back from those thoughts. I have to.
Because I know how her mind works
now—if she slips too deep into the past, into the grief and the memories of what we lost, it will be incredibly hard to pull her back out of the darkness.
"Your father mentioned something today," she says, her voice shifting into a stern, maternal register that makes me sit up a bit straighter.
"He said you hit a scholarship student. A student who happens to be a girl. Is that how I raised you, Zade Hamilton...? Huh? Hitting a lady?"
Despite the accusation, I find myself deeply thankful for the distraction. It keeps her grounded in the present.
"I didn't hit her, Mom," I say smoothly, swirling the remaining bourbon in my glass.
"She just happened to walk in the wrong direction at the wrong time."
"Don't make things hard for anyone, Zade. Because I've always taught you... what we—"
"What we throw at others... reaches back to us with doubled speed,"
I finish the sentence for her, a faint smile touching my lips. It's a mantra she's repeated to me since I was old enough to speak.
She smiles warmly, satisfied that the lesson stuck, before getting to her feet and kissing my forehead one last time.
"Good night, my boy," she whispers, turning and walking back toward the stairs, her footsteps fading into the upper levels.
I sit in the absolute silence for a long moment, the warmth of her presence fading, leaving me alone with my thoughts once again.
But the quiet doesn't last. My thoughts are violently shattered by the sudden, sharp buzz of my phone vibrating against the marble counter.
I snap my hand out and pick it up, my amber eyes narrowing into dangerous slits as a blocked, private number flashes across the screen.
I press the phone to my ear, my voice instantly dropping into a cold, lethal, and authoritative register.
"Speak."
"Zade... the shadow you saw at the café... we tracked the movement," a low, hurried voice speaks from the other end.
It's one of my private security detail, a man paid heavily to keep his eyes open.
"It wasn't a hallucination, boss. Someone is actively monitoring the girl... Alice Miller. Our scouts just confirmed they followed her from the campus borders directly toward the lower sector of the city... right toward the area where her after-hours jobs are located..."
Smash.
The heavy crystal glass in my hand shatters into a dozen jagged pieces.
The thick glass cracks and explodes instantly under the sudden, uncontrolled, and violent force of my grip.
Golden bourbon mixed with dark crimson blood begins to drip heavily from my palm, splashing onto the pristine white marble floor below.
"Who the fuck is it?" I hiss into the receiver, my amber eyes flashing with a feral, murderous fury that threatens to tear through my chest.
"We don't know his identity yet, Zade... but whoever it is... they aren't just watching her from afar. They are moving in close. They are waiting for the perfect moment to snatch her..."
I don't wait to hear another word.
I cut the call, throwing the phone onto the counter as a sudden, suffocating panic slams against my ribs, making it impossible to breathe.
No one touches what is mine.
No one.
She might think she hates me, she might want to run from me, but she belongs to me.
Completely ignoring the glass shards embedded in my skin and the blood dripping heavily from my sliced palm, I grab my car keys from the counter and sprint out of the front doors.
I hit the garage remote, throw myself into the driver's seat, and push the ignition.
The high-powered engine roars to life in the pitch-black garage like a caged beast.
Because if anyone in this godforsaken city thinks they can take my wildfire away from me... I will personally burn the entire city to the ground to find her.