Vengeance in His Bed novel Chapter 145

Chapter 145: He Can’t Mark Her

The pristine doors of the Boren inner sanctum closed behind Damian under the force of his arrival.

Damian didn’t bother stripping off his medical overcoat. The fabric was heavy, weighted down by the small, cylindrical glass vial resting in his breast pocket—the white sedative powder shifting against the glass with every step he took like a mocking pendulum. His lungs burned, the sterile aroma of the hospital emergency ward still clinging to his skin, mixed with the faint, unmistakable scent of winter-frost pheromones that had choked him inside the Grefo estate only an hour prior.

He marched past the drapes, his shoes sinking into the thick plush of the Persian carpet until he reached the threshold of the primary study.

Bellero Boren didn’t look up immediately. The patriarch of the Boren syndicate was reclined against the high back of his tufted leather wing chair, a silk pocket square trailing carelessly from his vest pocket. A single desk lamp cast shadows across his deeply lined face, illuminating the sharp, aquiline curve of his nose and the stark, brilliant white of his swept-back hair. In his right hand, he held a crystal lowball filled with amber bourbon, the ice cubes clinking lazily against the glass as he rotated his wrist.

"Well?" Bellero’s voice rolled across the room. He slowly lifted his eyes, locking them onto Damian’s rigid form. "You return late, my sovereign medical son. Tell me your hands are clean of your hospital charity and stained with what matters. Did you slip the powder into the tycoon’s glass? Is Dorrent Grefo currently tearing his own mansion apart in a primal frenzy?"

Damian stopped exactly three paces from the edge of the desk, his hands buried within his pockets, his knuckles flexing until they turned stark white against his skin.

"I haven’t done anything," Damian delivered flatly, his voice hard, devoid of the usual clinical deference he maintained in this house. "I didn’t find the time. And even if I had, the entire layout has mutated beyond your calculations. Things are falling apart inside the Grefo estate, Father. The game changed while you were sitting here pouring your drinks."

Bellero’s wrist froze. The lazy clinking of the ice cubes ceased instantly. A dangerous, ghostly stillness settled over his shoulders as his eyes narrowed into lethal slits. "You didn’t find the time?" he repeated, his tone dropping into a freezing register. "Explain yourself before I lose my patience with your pathetic morality."

"Dorrent marked her," Damian slammed the words onto the polished wood of the desk, letting them detonate in the quiet space between them. "The scent gland on her neck is claimed. The winter-frost pheromones have completely overridden her biology." Damian explained to him the rest of the story, then:

Clatter!

Bellero’s glass slammed down onto the desktop so violently that the amber bourbon sloshed over the rim, staining a stack of multi-million credit logistics ledgers. The old man surged out of his chair, his frame towering as his face twisted into an expression of monstrous rage.

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