Chapter 311: Chapter 311: The right weapon
Windstone didn’t alter his pace. The soft click of his polished shoes on pavement became his metronome as he moved through the capital’s business district. Morning traffic hummed around him; scooters buzzed past, delivery vans idled at red lights, and the smell of espresso drifted from narrow cafés already full of office workers. But under it all, he could still pick out the second set of footsteps.
Whoever was following him was either new to the field or as stupid as a brick, having never done his homework on Windstone.
He turned casually into a quieter side street lined with boutique offices and shuttered shopfronts. The sound of cars dulled to a hum behind him. Glass towers rose above on either side, their mirrored panes catching slices of pale sunlight. Windstone adjusted his cufflinks, a small, neat movement, and kept walking.
Another turn, this one into a service lane running behind a row of buildings. Here the air was cool and scented faintly of damp concrete and fresh paint. Security cameras blinked red high on the walls, but no one walked this strip at this hour. A perfect corridor of shadows between loading bays and recycling bins.
He didn’t glance back. He knew the presence followed; he could feel it in the rhythm behind him, in the way the echoes lagged half a beat when he stopped at the corner to "check his phone."
Windstone slipped the device back into his pocket, rolling his shoulders once more, letting the stiffness ease. Then he moved deeper into the lane, toward a small delivery courtyard hemmed in by high glass walls and steel fire escapes. It was technically public property but almost always deserted, just a concrete square, a few stacked pallets, and the faint hiss of an HVAC vent from above.
He stopped at the edge of the courtyard and smoothed his sleeve with the same calm he used to pour coffee. His pale-green eyes flicked to the dark window of a ground-floor office across the way; in the reflection, a silhouette followed at the turn.
The footsteps closed in until the shadow finally separated from the street. The man moved with a fighter’s balance, shoulders loose, center of gravity low, and a cocky tilt to his mouth as if he’d already won. Leather gloves, a dark hoodie zipped high, no wasted motion. Even from a few meters away, Windstone could feel it, the man was strong, his alpha scent sharp as iron and ozone.
He stopped just out of arm’s reach, folding knife already in hand, the blade snapping open with a quiet, confident click. "You’re coming with me," he said. "Orders are orders. Don’t make this ugly."
Windstone turned a little, enough to give him a profile and a level look. One brow lifted, that faint, aristocratic impatience Lucas had mocked him for so many times. "And you thought threatening me here was a good plan?"
The alpha grinned wider, rolling the knife once in his palm. "Save the lecture, old man. I don’t care about your titles. You’re a package, and I was paid to deliver."
Windstone almost smiled. "A butterfly knife?" His pale green eyes flicked to the blade and back to the man’s face. "How quaint."
The alpha’s nostrils flared. "I don’t need anything bigger for you."
Windstone’s sigh was soft, almost regretful. He straightened his cuff once more, a subtle movement that disguised the other hand sliding under his coat. When it came back into the light, it held a compact, matte-black pistol, finger resting flat along the guard, disciplined and steady.
"And here I thought the younger generation was more prepared," he murmured.
The alpha’s grin only widened, cocky even with the muzzle a breath away. "You going to use that in the capital? Just carrying it is a crime."
Windstone’s brow lifted higher, his expression one of mild disappointment. "So is kidnapping."
The pistol barked once, a sharp, muffled crack swallowed by the narrow courtyard. The man’s shoulder jerked back, a bloom of red darkening his hoodie as the bone splintered under the impact. He dropped the knife, a strangled sound breaking out of him as his knees hit the concrete.
"This shouldn’t kill you," Windstone said evenly, already reholstering the weapon with a practiced motion. "But it will slow you down."
As the alpha doubled over, shadows peeled off the walls, lean, silent figures in black moving like liquid out of nowhere. Two of them closed on the wounded man without a word, weapons drawn, their formation neat as a drill team.
Windstone adjusted his cufflinks again, stepping neatly out of the way of the takedown. "Why," he muttered under his breath, "would I be walking alone?"
He glanced once at the bleeding man, then at the operatives securing him, and turned back toward the sunlit street as if he were leaving a meeting that had simply run long.
—
The manor was quiet again by the time Trevor returned to their rooms. The curtains were drawn halfway, letting in a spill of early light that turned the pale sheets to gold. Lucas lay curled across the mattress where Trevor had left him, a loose tangle of limbs and rumpled hair, his breathing slow and heavy. He’d grumbled about "not moving today" right up until Trevor coaxed the anti-inflammatory down his throat and smoothed a hand down his back until sleep finally won.
Now Trevor sat against the headboard, a black T-shirt replacing his robe, a tablet balanced in one hand while the other rested on the warm curve of Lucas’s hip. His thumb traced lazy, absent-minded circles against bare skin under the sheet, soothing more than waking. With every shift Lucas made, a faint ache flickered across his features before he settled again, tucking his face into Trevor’s thigh like a cat.
Trevor scrolled through the morning reports with the same composure he had at board meetings. Supply chains, security rotations, the final touches on the imperial presentation, all of it flicked past under his thumb. He should have felt the usual twinge of irritation at starting work this early, but with Lucas half sprawled over his lap and the city still quiet beyond the windows, it felt almost... indulgent.
A discreet ping at the top of the screen drew his eyes from the spreadsheets. Security. The header was short and clean: "Incident: Windstone."
Trevor’s jaw flexed once, the only sign of reaction as he opened it. Two lines from a field operative:
Attempted abduction. Resolved. Target unharmed. Detainment of the attacker is in progress.
Trevor’s violet eyes flicked toward the sleeping omega in his arms. Lucas shifted, mumbling something inaudible, his green eyes fluttering before falling shut again. Trevor’s hand smoothed down his back, coaxing him back into sleep with a quiet murmur.
"Sleep, Lucas," he said softly, almost a promise. "I’ll handle it."
He thumbed a reply into the tablet with his free hand, short and precise, authorizing transfer of the attacker to a private holding cell for questioning. Then he set the device on the nightstand and exhaled, the tension in his shoulders easing only once the screen went dark.
For a moment he just looked down at Lucas, at the smudge of dark hair against pale skin, at the way his fingers had curled unconsciously into Trevor’s T-shirt. After everything, this was still his favorite view, his mate safe, warm, and close enough that his scent still clung to Trevor’s skin.