Page 94 of The Contract

“Careful, Wolfie,” she murmurs. Her gaze lifts to meet mine, something almost wistful in her expression. “You almost sound like you mean that.”

I don’t blink. Don’t breathe.

Because fuck.

I do.

I mean every damn word.

But before I can say anything, before I can do anything, a crack of thunder rolls across the sky, the distant storm drawing closer.

Elena glances up, distracted, her lips parting slightly as she watches the sky flicker with lightning over the ocean.

I take the out she’s given me, exhaling slowly as I step back, creating space between us.

“We should head out before it downpours,” I murmur, running a hand through my hair.

She nods, like she’s been snapped back into reality, and I recognize the way she swallows thickly, how she subtly puts distance between us.

Like she needs to.

Like she’s afraid of what might happen if she doesn’t.

Still, she lets me take her hand as we move away from the dance floor, making our way down the wooden deck and onto the moonlit beach that leads back to our bungalow.

I slip off my shoes, holding them in one hand, and Elena follows suit, lifting the hem of her gown as she steps barefoot onto the cool sand.

For a while, we walk in comfortable silence, the sounds of the distant party fading behind us, replaced by the steady rhythm of the waves.

After a beat, Elena stops, glancing at me before holding out her shoes.

I lift a brow, and she smirks.

“You’re already carrying yours,” she points out. “Might as well add mine to the collection.”

I huff out a low laugh, but I take them, adding them to mine.

She watches me for a moment, something unreadable in her expression before she finally asks, “Tell me why?”

I glance at her, brow lifting slightly. “Why what?”

She hesitates, then gestures vaguely with her free hand, the motion encompassing more than just the merger—the empire, the relentless drive, the insatiable hunger for more.

“Why do you chase all of this so much?” she asks, her voice curious, not judgmental.

Something about the way she asks—like she genuinely wants to understand me—makes my chest tighten.

“What made little Damien Wolfe want to grow up and own half the world's biggest cities?” she presses, tilting her head slightly.

I let out a slow breath, my eyes fixed ahead on the ocean as I consider her question.

She’s not the first person to ask.

But she is the first person I actually want to answer.

“You talk about it like it was always inevitable,” I muse, my tone dry but not unkind.

She shrugs, a small smile playing on her lips.

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