Page 41 of Knot Their Arrangement

His hand finds mine from behind, fingers intertwining with deliberate possession. The contrast between his gentle touch and the menace radiating from him makes my head spin.

This is a man used to power, used to wielding it with precise control.

A new presence behind me draws my attention, but it's the scent that truly captures me – a complex aroma that seems to embody both comfort and sophistication.

Notes of rich cappuccino blend seamlessly with buttery toffee and the distinct sweetness of London fog tea. Hints of lavender weave through it all, creating an unexpectedly soft profile that's grounded by masculine musk and subtle hints of aged leather-bound books.

It's like walking into a luxury café tucked away in an ancient library.

When I turn slightly to look at him, I'm immediately struck by his eyes – or rather, their stunning peculiarity.

Heterochromia makes his left eye a mesmerizing swirl of brown shot through with green and gold, while his right is nearly black with barely perceptible hints of deep brown.

The effect is hypnotic, made even more striking by how his snow-white hair falls in perfectly tousled waves that probably took an hour to look so effortlessly elegant.

His attire speaks of old money and meticulous attention to detail.

The simplicity of his black suit only emphasizes its perfect tailoring, every crease exactly where it should be, every line speaking of an upbringing where anything less than perfection was unacceptable. Even the way he holds himself carries an air of refined grace that makes my finishing school training look amateur in comparison.

A slight smirk plays at his lips as he raises one finger to them, signaling for my silence.

The gesture is both conspiratorial and commanding, making me feel like I'm part of some elaborate dance whose steps I'm only beginning to learn. I nod almost imperceptibly, trying not to draw attention away from the Alpha still standing protectively before me.

With movements that seem choreographed in their fluidity, this newcomer sinks to one knee beside me. The leather-bound book he was holding –something that looks antique and probably priceless –is set aside with careful reverence.

In its place appears a box that makes my breath catch.

It's clearly a shoe box, but calling it that feels like calling a Rolls Royce a car. When he opens it, I have to bite back a gasp. The sandals inside sparkle like captured starlight adorned not with mere Swarovski crystals but with Argyle pink diamonds – the rarest and most expensive diamonds in the world.

Each stone must be worth more than most people's homes.

A modern Cinderella story, but with diamonds instead of glass.

He lifts my feet with gentle efficiency, seemingly unbothered by their dampness from running through puddles. The interior of each sandal feels like clouds against my skin, perfectly molded as if they were crafted specifically for me.

I silently thank whatever impulse made me accept Astraea's insistence on that pedicure – the cat-eye sparkle of the teal polish complements the white and blue diamonds perfectly.

The entire exchange happens so quickly and smoothly that I barely have time to process it. One moment he's carefully fitting the sandals to my feet, the next they're secured and my old ones have vanished into the box, which itself seems to disappear as he rises gracefully to his feet, book back in hand as if he never set it down.

I open my mouth to question this bit of elegant sleight of hand, but another voice cuts through the lobby – male this time, carrying authority despite its nervous tremor.

"M-M-Mister Castellano!" The man's voice cracks slightly on the name. "One of our best VIP exclusive guests!"

The way he says it – like someone announcing royalty while simultaneously apologizing for breathing the same air – makes me realize just how much trouble the receptionist has caused.

This isn't just any wealthy Alpha putting on a show.

This isCastellano– a name that carries enough weight to make even the club's management stutter.

And I, for that matter, have no clue who he is...

"Who's that?" The receptionist's voice carries a mixture of confusion and disdain that makes my blood run cold.

Even I, with my limited knowledge of this world, can sense the magnitude of her error.

The sharp crack of skin meeting skin echoes through the lobby as the manager's hand connects with her face.

I jerk back in horror, a small gasp escaping my lips. My eyes dart to the white-haired man beside me, but his calm expression suggests this kind of violence is nothing new in their world.

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