Page 90 of Rescuing Aria
“I’m fine.” I step toward him, heart hammering—but Wolfe’s fingers curl around my arm, stopping me cold.
A low chuckle rumbles from him, dark and indulgent.
“Family reunions are so touching.” He guides me not to my father, but to the chair opposite him, separating us by a battlefield of linen and crystal. A deliberate move. A message. “Please, sit. We have much to discuss.”
The room is a study in contrast—beauty and threat, elegance and menace layered in equal measure. But the real tension isn’t in the place settings or the guards stationed at the door.
It’s between the men flanking me.
Blood enemies. Bound by one woman. Torn apart by the same.
My mother’s ghost sits with us too, invisible but heavy in the air. Her absence sharpens the edge of every glance, every word.
I wear her. Or close enough.
The blue dress clings to my skin like memory—an exact replica of my mother’s favorite. The same midnight hue, the same elegant lines, the same fragile silk that used to shimmer when she twirled beneath ballroom chandeliers. I found it hanging in the closet. Not chosen by accident.
Wolfe knew exactly what he was doing.
My father sees it. His gaze skims the neckline, catches on the familiar slope of the shoulders, then hardens. His eyes flick to the neckline, then back to my face. No flicker of recognition. No change in expression. But I feel the tension bleed into the room like smoke.
No flinch. No reaction. Not even a blink.
But I see the effort it costs him.
The tightening of his jaw. The steel in his spine.
He knows what this is and refuses to give Wolfe the satisfaction of seeing it land.
But the silence between them isn’t empty. It says more than a scream ever could.
It’s loaded. Cracking.
And my mother’s memory sits between them like a lit fuse.
Marcus’s eyes dart to me again, hungry for confirmation that I’m whole. But Wolfe withholds it—casually, cruelly—savoring the way it twists the knife.
“Let her speak to me,” Marcus grits out, a growl buried beneath cultured restraint. “Let me know she’s okay.”
Wolfe leans back, relaxed as a king presiding over court.
“You’re in no position to demand anything.” He folds his napkin slowly, deliberately. “But don’t worry. She’s here. Breathing. For now, that’s enough.”
My father’s jaw clenches, but he doesn’t lash out. That’s not his way. He bleeds power without needing to raise his voice.
But I see it—the crack in his composure. Not from fear for himself. But for me.
He doesn’t know what Wolfe wants, but I’m the prize they’re both fighting over.
The nameless girl materializes beside me, pulling out my chair. As I sit, she keeps her eyes downcast, particularly when near Wolfe. Her presence at the edge of the room—not quite servant, not quite guest—creates a constant undercurrent of tension.
Wolfe takes the head of the table, signaling to the girl. She moves immediately to pour wine into crystal glasses that catch the light like liquid rubies. When she reaches Wolfe, he casually rests his hand on her arm, fingers digging in possessively.
She freezes, bottle still poised, until he removes his hand with a smirk in my direction. The message is clear: everything here belongs to him.
I fight the urge to stand up for her, but drawing his attention to her would only make things worse. I’ve seen that dynamic play out in charity galas where wealthy men treat their trophy wives as accessories. Making a scene never helps the victim. So I swallow my disgust, filing it away with all the other reasons Wolfe deserves to rot in prison.
“To family.” Wolfe raises his glass. “The one thing that can never truly be escaped.”
