Fangs, Fate & Other Bad Decisions novel Chapter 48

Chapter 48

By midday Tuesday, I’m one stiff comment away from ending someone’s bloodline.

The office is a symphony of all the things I loathe: phones ringing, people breathing too loudly, and Griffin humming under his breath like he doesn’t value his life.

I try to focus on the quarterly reports spread out in front of me. Revenue’s up, so the shareholders are happy. And our growth projections are record–breaking. It should thrill me. It always has before.

Now, though, I can only think about how Harley’s hair smelled when she fell asleep against me. The soft little sounds she made. And the way she mumbled my name like it was a secret she didn’t even know she was keeping.

1 push the papers away with a growl, the veins in my forearm flexing.

Griffin pokes his head into my office with a file folder tucked under his arm and a saintly expression plastered on his face. I have the updated contracts for…”

*Shut the door,” 1 snap at him.

He blinks once, then twice, then obeys.

When the door clicks shut behind him, I stand–and it’s slow, controlled, and predatory.

Griffin watches me warily, as if he knows what’s coming

“Her number,” 1 bite out. “Give it to me.”

He doesn’t even have to ask who I mean. Of course, he doesn’t. He was there. He saw everything

Griffin, the loyal bastard that he is, treads carefully. “Sir, with all due respect…you asked us to remove all personal details unless they’re voluntarily given. It’s our privacy protocol. Remember?”

I step around the desk towards him, my temper coiling tighter with every step.

“I’m revising that protocol,” I say silkily and dangerously. “Right fucking now.”

Griffin sighs under his breath like a man confronting an inevitable fate, before calmly saying, “You’re not thinking clearly, sir.”

“I’m thinking more clearly than I have in centuries,” I snarl at him, pinning him with a glare that could turn headstones to dust.

A beat of silence passes between us. Then a breath. And finally, a decision.

Slowly, Griffin reaches into his jacket and pulls out a small notebook. Not his company phone. Not his company tablet. A handwritten damn notebook.

He’s too smart to keep Harley’s details anywhere that could be traced. Another reason he’s the best PA in the goddamn country.

He flips it open, finds the page he’s looking for, and then tears it out neatly, before walking forward and setting the paper on the small conference table off to the side without a word–no apology or explanation.

Just the information I’ve been craving like a dying man craves air.

“You’re a dead man if she gets angry about this,” Griffin says under his breath, but there’s no real heat behind it. Only a slight, knowing smile, he doesn’t even bother to hide.

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