Claimed By The Mafia Rogue King (Snow and Cupid) novel Chapter 279

Chapter 279

Snowflakes

The ringing of Cupid’s cellphone sliced through the quiet like a blade, sharp and insistent, dragging me out of sleep.

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I shifted slowly in the circle of his arms, blinking against the soft morning light filtering through the curtains. He didn’t stir. Not even a twitch.

I lifted my head, studying the peaceful lines of his face, lashes dark against his skin, chest rising and falling in the deep, even rhythm of someone truly gone.

“Cupid?” I whispered, voice still thick with sleep.

Nothing.

I shook him gently. Again.

“Cupid?”

Still nothing. I knew this about him by now. He slept like the dead when he finally let go. The phone kept ringing, insistent, vibrating against the nightstand.

I shook him a little harder. “Cupid.”

His brows furrowed suddenly, a flicker of tension crossing his face that made my heart stutter.

Then his eyes fluttered open, green, hazy at first, finding mine. He reached for my hand instinctively, but I pulled back, anger flaring hot in my chest at him for daring to scared me this morning.

“Your cellphone is ringing,” I muttered, already sliding out of bed. The sheets slipped away cold against my skin.

He watched me go, gaze tracking every movement as I crossed to the dresser. I could feel it, those eyes lingering, heavy, almost possessive.

“No morning kiss?” His voice was low, rough from sleep, but there was a thread of something awe beneath it.

I paused, frowning, then turned back. I walked to the bed, leaned down, and pressed my lips to his, just a light brush, barely there. Before he could deepen it, I pulled away.

The phone rang again, relentless. He wasn’t satisfied with the kiss; I could see it in the slight tightening of his jaw.

He reached over, snatched the device, glanced at the screen and everything about him changed. The softness vanished. His jaw set hard, eyes narrowing to slits.

He disconnected the call without answering, swung his legs over the side of the bed, and buried his face in his palms for a long second. A sigh, harsh, controlled escaped him.

I watched from where I stood, quiet. My gaze drifted down his bare back. There, etched into the skin between his shoulder blades, was the tattoo I’d glimpsed before but never truly studied in daylight.

A sacred werewolf’sigil, crescent moon cradled in interlocking runes but twisted with something more modern, more corporate,

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11:32 pm P P W

Chapter 279

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A stylized logo? It crawled up the side of his neck in thin, precise lines, disappearing beneath the fall of his hair, Beautiful. Dangerous. Unmistakably Godlike.

I was still staring when a small red light caught my eye. Tiny, blinking steadily on the back of his right shoulder.

My breath caught.

I’d seen something like it once before around his wrist, weeks go. He’d brushed it off then, called it a tracker. But this one… this was another. Different placement. Why?

“Cupid… your shoulder is…”

He turned his head sharply, following my gaze. The moment he saw the blinking red dot, his expression went stone–cold.

He snatched the phone again, thumbed a number, and put it to his ear.

“Who’s tracking me?” The words came out quiet. Deadly. A pause. “Check on it. Fast.”

He ended the call.

Silence stretched, thick, electric. The phone rang again almost immediately. He answered without looking at the screen.

I watched his face change as he listened. Murderous. Pure, restrained fury. When he spoke again, his voice was ice.

“Turn off the location. And why the fuck would they allow her into the system?”

He disconnected without waiting for a reply. For several heart–stopping seconds he sat motionless, shoulders rigid, staring at nothing. Then slowly he turned to face me.

Reality seemed to click back into place. He remembered I was there. That I’d heard every word from his side.

My breath trembled in my chest. I’d seen many sides of Cupid. Tender, hungry, playful, protective but this… this was the side that reminded me of the first time we met.

The second time I’d met him at F.A.A.R., when he’d come to sign the charity documents, he’d looked like this: quiet danger wrapped in expensive tailoring. A man who could ruin lives without raising his voice.

Gangster.

The word flickered through my mind before I could stop it.

“I should get ready for work,” I said shakily, turning toward the bathroom before he could respond.

I stayed under the shower longer than necessary, letting the hot water pound against my skin until the tremor in my hands eased.

When I finally stepped out, towel wrapped tight around me, he was already up. The bed was made, sheets smoothed, pillows fluffed.

The TV murmured low in the background; the news ticker scrolled across the bottom of the screen.

He paused mid–motion when he heard me, eyes flicking to the broadcast.

“Ares Bani is coming to H.O.W.L. today?” His voice was calm. Too calm.

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