Page 60

SIXTY

BANE

I knock once.

Moira opens the door before I can knock again, her expression sharp, unimpressed—until her gaze drops to the ring in my hand. Then, just for a second, something flickers in her eyes. Something she smothers fast, locking it down behind that wicked mouth and defiant chin.

I haven’t been able to read her face since I got her to agree to come here with me, and we haven’t spoken a single word about what happened. I haven’t told her I know why she left. She hasn’t offered any information about her swift departure or anything else. She’s barely spoken two words to me.

At least on the plane, I had ten straight hours of being near her. Of watching her every twitch and squirm. The way her hand so gracefully held her pen as she scribbled furiously in that bright fuchsia notebook of hers with black paint splatters on the cover.

Yet whatever’s changed between us, my obsession with her remains as deep as ever.

“They’re here,” I say simply.

She crosses her arms, leaning against the doorframe. Deliberately casual. “Who’s ‘they?’”

I let the corner of my mouth lift, slow and deliberate. “A den of Blackwolfs.”

She scoffs, but I catch the way her throat moves when she swallows. I don’t miss a single thing. She’s hidden in her extensive suite in the castle since we got here yesterday, and I’m hungry to drink in the way her fingers twitch where they’re tucked under her arms.

I lift the ring, this one heavier than the last, something meant to be seen and send a message. The sconce light catches on the deep-cut facets, the gold of the band gleaming. I clock the way her breathing subtly changes, just enough for me to notice. Just enough for me to feel it.

“You’ll need your armor.”

Her expression doesn’t crack, but her pulse jumps at her throat, a betraying little flutter just under her skin.

She takes her time answering, gaze locked on the ring like it’s a loaded gun. Then a wry eyebrow pops. “You’re upgrading me?”

I tilt my head, drinking her in. Savoring her. “Let’s see how it fits.”

She doesn’t move. Doesn’t reach for it.

But she doesn’t pull away when I take her hand, either. The immediate electric sizzle is still there the second we touch.

I have to force myself not to hold my breath as I press the ring onto her fourth finger. Slow. Deliberate. Watching the way her breath hitches. Watching the way her lips part just slightly before she seals them shut again, locking up whatever reaction she refuses to give me.

But I feel it.

She can pretend all she wants. Pretend she’s indifferent, that this means nothing. But her body betrays her in the quietest ways. The tension in her fingers, the way she lets me slide the ring all the way to the base of her finger without a single protest.

Satisfaction roars in my chest.

Her armor may be up, but she still lets me in.

It’s still there between us. That living flame that bursts to life whenever we’re near each other. If she’s getting help for her mental health, I want to celebrate and support her.

But I won’t let her deny the inferno that is us .

“Ready?” I ask, voice low, dark, meant only for her.

She exhales through her nose, then makes a show of examining the ring like it’s just another accessory. “Let’s get this over with.”

But when I offer my arm, she takes it.

We descend the grand staircase together, the murmur of conversation below growing louder with each step. The dining hall stretches before us, dripping in excess. Dark wood gleams beneath the glow of chandeliers. A fire roars in the massive stone hearth, casting flickering shadows across the long dining table that’s ostensibly set for dinner but that’s really set for war.

The air is thick . Every eye in the room is on us as we approach. A meal fit for kings stretches across the table, untouched apart from the wine glasses. Everyone here’s ravenous, but not for food.

They’re waiting. Watching. Calculating.

I lean down, my lips close enough to brush Moira’s ear if I let myself. I exert maximum self-control, though, and stay a millimeter away from her precious skin as I whisper, “Rotterdam’s at the head of the table. He’s my father’s lawyer and a professional vulture. He’ll smile, but only because he enjoys picking people apart at the bones.”

Moira’s lips press together, her spine straighter now. Good girl.

“To his right—my eldest brother, Charles. He’s got my father’s ambition but none of his charm. Next to him is Gabriella. Sharp and vicious, and she’ll smile while she’s shoving an icepick in your ribs. She’s one to watch.”

Moira’s fingers tighten slightly where they rest against my arm.

“The blond, three seats down? That’s Simon. He’s had everything handed to him, so he compensates by making everyone else miserable. Don’t engage.”

She exhales, muttering under her breath, “I wouldn’t dream of it.”

“And the woman at the end, swirling her wine like she’d rather shatter the glass than drink from it? That’s Miriam. One of my father’s many discarded lovers and Simon’s mother. She’ll call you dear while digging the knife in.”

Moira lifts her chin, eyes bright with something reckless. “So many pointy objects.”

I glance down at her, noting the fire in her eyes. My blood heats.

Conversation around the table slows as we reach the last steps. Every head turns. Every gaze sharpens. They’re ready to carve Moira up and see what she’s made of.

I slide my hand over hers, fingers settling firmly over her knuckles. When she squeezes back, my entire chest expands.

Let them look. Let them wonder. Let them think what they want.

She’s mine .

And I’m about to show them exactly what that means.

The moment we sit, as expected, the knives come out.

Moira sits beside me, her spine straight, her chin tipped up in the way she does when she’s already prepared for a fight. She thinks she’s ready. She doesn’t understand yet—this isn’t a fight. It’s a slow, deliberate unraveling. And they’ll enjoy every second of watching her come apart.

I immediately want to protect her, but I can see by the way she shoots a quick glare my way she won’t welcome it. I need to let her find her footing on her own first. It won’t do her any favors with the wolves if I don’t let her parry some first strikes and show them what she’s made of, either.

So grudgingly, I just nudge my chair closer and stare down my family.

Simon is the first to punch, his voice dripping with lazy cruelty. “Well, well. The stray he picked up finally made it to the big kid’s table.”

Moira doesn’t flinch, but I see it—the way her breath catches, the fraction of a second where she has to decide whether to ignore him or slit him open with her words.

She picks the latter. “I’d say it’s nice to meet you,” her brow scrunches adorably, “but I was raised not to lie.”

Gabriella lets out a sharp little laugh into her wine glass. Charles merely raises an eyebrow. Simon’s smirk widens, but there’s something mean curling at the edges now. He leans back, stretching out like he owns the room. “Feisty. Shame that won’t help you here.”

Moira’s fingers tighten around her fork. She’s still trying to play it cool, but I know her. I know how hard it is for her to sit still when she’s under attack. She’d rather throw the first punch and draw first blood. Fuck, I love her. Even as I know she’s in my world now, and here, we don’t waste effort when words can kill just as easily.

Still, it’s nice to see some fire back in her eyes, even if I instantly feel protective of her in this room of vipers.

Miriam, ever the elegant executioner, tilts her head, smiling with a mouth full of hidden razors. “I must admit, darling, I was expecting… well, someone else . Bane’s tastes have always run a bit more… polished.”

Moira turns to her, eyes sharp, but before she can fire back, Miriam keeps going, voice smooth. “But I suppose every man has his rebellions. And who could blame him? You’re such a delightful little scandal .”

The way she says it—delightful like an insult, scandal like a disease.

Moira’s eyes narrow. “And you’re his father’s what , exactly? Beloved companion? Kept woman? Longest-running mistake?”

A hush falls over the table. Gabriella’s lips twitch. Simon grins outright. Even Rotterdam, ever the composed observer, flicks his gaze toward Miriam to see how she’ll react.

Miriam only smiles wider, but there’s something venomous underneath. “Oh, darling,” she murmurs, her fingers gliding over the rim of her wine glass. “If you have to ask, then you really don’t belong here.”

Moira’s fingers twitch toward her knife.

I know the moment she’s about to snap—the tension in her shoulders, the tight breath, the way her eyes flash like she’s on the edge of lunging across the table and cutting this woman open with something sharper than silver.

I could stop this. Step in. Shut it down with a word.

But I don’t.

Not yet.

I let it simmer. Let her feel the weight of them pressing in. Let her make the choice—does she lash out? Does she rise above it? Does she play the game or let them tear her apart before the first course is even served?

And then Charles, ever the patient predator, finally speaks. “This is all very entertaining,” he says, voice as smooth as the whiskey in his glass. “But I think we’re all still wondering the same thing.” He turns his gaze on me, but his words are meant for her. “Why is she here?”

Rotterdam doesn’t react, but I know he’s listening closely now. He flips open his leather folder, ready to lay out the details of the inheritance. But Charles doesn’t care about legalities. He cares about power. About hierarchy. About reminding everyone at this table where they fall in the Blackwolf pecking order.

Moira squares her shoulders, her lips parting to answer, but before she can, Simon scoffs. “She shouldn’t even be here.”

That’s when I move.

Not loud. Not aggressive. Just a slow, deliberate reach for my whiskey. I swirl the glass, the scent of oak and fire curling under my nose.

“Neither should most of you,” I murmur, my voice lazy and edged with amusement. I lift the glass to my lips. “But here we are. Brothers and sister. Ladies ,” I give a sardonic raise of an eyebrow Miriam’s way so she feels my sarcasm like a whip, “and gentlemen, may I introduce my wife, Moira Blackwolf.”

Moira exhales sharply beside me, irritation rolling off her in waves.

She doesn’t need me to fight for her.

But she’s realizing something now, something that’s been creeping up on her since the moment we walked into this room.

It doesn’t matter how sharp her tongue is or how fast she can strike?—

Because in this world, power isn’t about speaking the loudest. It’s about making everyone else fall silent. I decide when the knife twists and when the room bends to me .

And right now, they’re learning what Moira already knows—this was never a fight. It was always a foregone conclusion.

I’m just making damn sure they know it.

Silence never lasts long in a room full of predators.

I let them have their fun. Let them snap their teeth at Moira, let them think they could toy with her, let them believe—for one last, fleeting moment—that they still hold power here.

But the game is over.

I set my whiskey glass down with a deliberate clink against the polished wood, the sound slicing through the low hum of conversation like a blade. “Rotterdam.”

The lawyer looks up, unfazed but already moving. He knows. Of course, he knows.

“It’s time.”

Moira stiffens beside me. Her fingers are curled tight against the edge of the table, white-knuckled like she’s bracing for impact. She should be. They all should be.

Rotterdam clears his throat, unfastens the leather clasp on his folder, and pulls out a thick sheaf of documents. He adjusts his glasses, scanning the first page. “As per the last will and testament of the late Bradford Blackwolf?—”

The name alone sends a ripple through the table. A sharp inhale from Miriam, Charles’s jaw locks tight, and Gabriella’s fingers tighten around the stem of her wine glass. My father’s ghost is still in the room, his phantom hand still wrapped around their throats.

Rotterdam continues, his voice cool and measured. “All assets, including Blackwood Hall, all financial holdings, and controlling interest in Blackwood Enterprises are hereby transferred in full to Bane Blackwood.”

For a second, there’s nothing. Just the weight of those words settling like lead into the marrow of every person sitting at this cursed table.

Then, the explosion.

Miriam is the first to react, shoving back from the table so hard her wine glass tips, red spilling across the pristine linen. “That’s impossible.”

“Surely, there’s a mistake.” Charles’s voice is tight, but there’s an edge of desperation beneath it. “My father wouldn’t?—”

“He did.” Rotterdam flips a page, adjusting his glasses. “The will was amended six months before his death. The paperwork is in order.”

Gabriella exhales a sharp laugh, dark and bitter. “So that’s it? We get nothing ?”

“Correct.”

Simon is less elegant about it. “That fucking bastard! ” He slams his fist onto the table, silverware rattling. “He left us scraps? What about the company? What about?—”

“All holdings.” Rotterdam doesn’t even look up. “Including the company.”

“You expect us to believe that?” Charles snaps, voice finally cracking. “You expect us to just accept that Bane gets everything ?”

I take my time swirling the whiskey in my glass, watching the amber liquid catch the firelight. Then I meet his gaze, slow and deliberate. “Yes.”

Chaos erupts.

Miriam hisses something under her breath, venom dripping from every syllable. Gabriella is laughing again, wild and mean. Simon is half out of his chair, face red, furious, looking like he’s ready to launch himself across the table. Charles is already plotting, I can see it—the calculations running behind his eyes, searching for any loophole, any way to claw back what was never his to begin with.

Moira hasn’t moved.

She’s watching them, expression unreadable, but I can feel the tension in her body. It’s different now. Before, they were attacking her . Now, they’re devouring each other.

And me?

I sit back, relaxed, and let them.

Simon finally rounds on me, voice furious. “What the fuck did you do ?”

I blink at him. “Inherited.”

Charles rakes a hand through his hair, exhaling sharply through his nose. “This doesn’t make sense. Father wouldn’t just leave everything to you.”

“Wouldn’t he?” I arch a brow. “I was the only one who never needed a leash.”

That lands. A direct hit. Charles’s fingers twitch like he wants to throw his glass at my head. Instead, he turns to Rotterdam. “There has to be a way to contest this.”

Rotterdam is unbothered as he slides the papers forward. “You’re welcome to try. But I assure you, there is no avenue to contest.”

Gabriella scoffs. “Oh, come now. The old man was losing his mind at the end. He probably didn’t even know what he was signing.”

Rotterdam lifts a brow, turning a page with infuriating calm. “The will was amended before he contracted Creutzfeldt-Jakob disease. His mental faculties were intact. The paperwork is sound.”

“So you’re saying Bane didn’t blackmail him into changing it?” Simon sneers, crossing his arms. “Because that seems more likely.”

Rotterdam doesn’t even glance up. “I’m not exactly sure what you imagine a man on a lowly priest’s salary could do to influence a man like your father, but I assure you, there was no coercion, no undue influence. Your father made his wishes explicitly clear. And as your father so often loved to remind anyone in his vicinity, as the richest man in the world, he could afford the best .”

He continues shuffling papers. “And I am the best. The will is iron-clad against contestation, lawsuit, or any other infringement the lot of you might think up.”

Miriam lets out a cold laugh, eyes glittering with something sharp. “Of course it is. Even if it wasn’t blackmail, I still suppose we’re meant to believe Bane had nothing to do with it? That he didn’t whisper in his father’s ear and poison his mind against the rest of us?”

“Believe what you like,” I say, tipping my glass toward her. “It won’t change the outcome.”

Silence again, but this time, it’s different. This time, it’s heavier. More dangerous.

I exhale slowly, stretching out my fingers against the table. “Are we done?”

Miriam scoffs, shaking her head, her nails digging into her palm. “You don’t even want it, do you?”

I tilt my head, smiling slightly. “Want has nothing to do with it.”

The fire crackles. The wine knocked over earlier still bleeds across the tablecloth. The wolves are restless, snapping their teeth, realizing too late that the hunt is already over.

I have everything.

And they have nothing .

I let them stew in it. Let the weight of their loss settle and their desperation sink into their bones.

Then I break the silence.

I push back from the table, slow and deliberate, and glance at Rotterdam. “You know,” I say, amused, “you’re right that Father only ever hired the best .”

Rotterdam, professional to his core, does not react, but I see the flicker of dry amusement in his eyes.

I swirl my whiskey, watching it catch the firelight. “And as luck would have it, he was right about that. Which is why, as of today, Rotterdam is no longer our father’s lawyer.” I lean forward, placing my glass down with a measured clink . “He’s mine .”

The eruption is immediate. Reactions explode around the table again. Only Miriam just studies me quietly, her eyes narrowing like she’s recalibrating everything she thought she knew.

Moira shifts beside me. I don’t look at her. Not yet.

Instead, I nod to Rotterdam. “Read it.”

Rotterdam clears his throat, straightens his cuffs, and flips to a fresh set of documents. “As the sole heir of Bradley Blackwolf’s estate, Bane Blackwolf has allocated the following financial distribution.”

The room quiets immediately and holds its breath.

Rotterdam continues, voice unshaken. “Each legally recognized child of Bradley Blackwolf is to receive a payout of one billion dollars.”

Charles stills, Simon’s mouth parts slightly, and Gabriella, for the first time all evening, looks genuinely surprised.

Rotterdam barely pauses before continuing. “Each partner who maintained a domestic relationship with Bradley Blackwolf for six years or more is to receive a payment of fifty million dollars.”

Miriam’s grip tightens on her wine glass. She lived with my father for eight. I don’t miss the way her lips part slightly or the way she catches herself before reacting.

“I, Bane Blackwolf, will retain one billion dollars for myself.” Rotterdam turns the page. “The remainder of the estate and holdings will be transferred to an investment portfolio to be donated to charitable organizations both of my choosing and by a board I will personally appoint to determine further allocations.”

Rotterdam folds his hands neatly over the documents. “This offer expires in one hour.”

A breath of silence.

Then, the room erupts .

“You’re out of your mind .” Simon’s voice is incredulous, but beneath it, greed hums like a second heartbeat. He wants the deal. They all do.

“Only a billion dollars.” Charles’s voice is furious. “You’d really cheat me out of?—”

“Yes.” My tone is final. “Take it. Don’t take it. It makes no difference to me.” I lean back in my chair, tapping my fingers idly against the glass. “But let me be very clear: once the hour is up, the offer is gone.” I let the words settle before delivering the final blow. “And you go back to getting nothing . Feel free to ask questions.”

Miriam exhales slowly, setting her wine glass down. Her nails click against the crystal. “You’re enjoying this.”

I tilt my head, considering her. “That,” I murmur, “is not a question.”

A muscle in her jaw flexes.

Gabriella laughs, the sound rich with something almost admiring. “Well,” she says, lifting her glass. “I’ll drink to that.”

But Charles—Charles is calculating. Simon is vibrating with barely contained fury. And Moira, beside me, is watching everything .

Tick, tick, tick.

The clock is running down.

And the wolves are cornered .

Beneath the table, Moira squeezes my hand. It sends a wave of electricity that tangles with the adrenaline of the moment and at finally facing off with my toxic family.