Fangs, Fate & Other Bad Decisions Chapter 39

After my shower, I aimlessly wander back into my bedroom, sit on the edge of the black silk-covered bed, and stare at the empty space beside me.

She should be here. Next to me. Her hair a mess, wearing that ridiculous oversized t-shirt with some worn-out book quote on it, while hogging the sheets, and kicking me in her sleep.

But she’s not.

I lie back anyway and close my eyes, hoping for a few hours of sleep.

And for the first time in my miserable existence, I don’t dream of blood, power, or vengeance. I dream of *her*. Of how she mocked my aim. Of her calling me an entitled rich asshole, like my credit limit somehow calls into question my personality, and yet, looking at me like I’m more than what I own. Like I’m someone who could be…enough.

But when I wake up a couple of hours later from a restless sleep, the room is even colder than I remember, and I’m not even sure if it’s the air or from her absence.

I lie there for a moment as still as possible and listening intently. For what? Her breathing? Her laughter? That quiet little snort she makes when she finds her own joke a bit too funny? I don’t know. But whatever it is I’m listening for, it’s not fucking here.

I stare at the high ceiling of my penthouse, where the shadows stretch long and unfamiliarly. Everything in this place used to exude order, power, and control. Now, though, it feels…empty.

The mattress beneath me feels too firm, the sheets too pristine, while the absence of sound is too loud.

I get up, theorizing that my morning routine might ground me. So I take a cold shower and go through the motions in a precise and robotic rhythm.

I dress in tailored pants and a monochrome shirt, with no tie—my usual daily armor.

I drink coffee I don’t want and pace through the penthouse, past glass and chrome, and through shadows that don’t shift unless I command them to.

But *nothing* feels the same.

The sun threatens to rise, its light creeping through the floor-to-ceiling windows like an unwanted guest, so I pull the blackout curtains shut with more force than necessary. Then I stand there, my palm flat against the glass, and finally admit the truth to myself.

It isn’t the penthouse that has changed, or even the silence.

It’s me.

And for the first time in my long arduous existence…I don’t know what to do with that.

∞∞∞∞∞∞∞∞∞∞∞∞∞∞∞

When I step into my office an hour later, I instantly know something’s off.

The air feels wrong, and my executive chair creaks when I sit behind my desk, something it’s never done before. The light filtering through the floor-to-ceiling windows is too bright, and I swear someone replaced my usual espresso beans at home with something that tastes like it was harvested from a dirt patch behind a gas station.

And Griffin is smiling as he walks into my office. And that’s the final straw that breaks my tenuous patience.

“What the hell are you smirking at?” I snap before I’ve even opened my laptop.

“Good morning to you, too, sir,” he says calmly, as he straightens the cuffs of his shirt, his neutral tone clashing with the ghost of that grin on his ridiculous face. “I’m busy brewing fresh coffee. Your first meeting’s in ten minutes. And the team finalized the proposal from Singapore—you’re expected to review and sign off on it before lunchtime.”

I don’t answer, just glaring at him like I might launch the travel coffee mug in my hand at his head.

All because I haven’t slept, not really, not after carrying her into her house and watching her blink up at me like I’m something she doesn’t know how to let go of.

That kiss—fuck! That kiss burned me alive.

And now I’m sitting here, surrounded by glass, steel, and hundreds of employees, all while pretending my entire world hasn’t shifted around a woman who still doesn’t even know what I am.

I abruptly push out of my chair, almost causing it to crash into the antique executive credenza behind my desk, and pace to the window, with my arms crossed and my jaw as tight as a rigidly coiled spring.

I want to call her. No. I *need* to call her.

But... I. Don’t. Have. Her. Fucking. Number.

I, Thane Draeven, who has a dossier on every head of state, criminal, and corporation leader on three continents, do not have the phone number of the woman who curled into my chest in the back of my car last night and fell asleep to the rhythm of my heartbeat.

I press my thumb and index finger to the bridge of my nose and bark, “Griffin.”

“Yes, sir?” he answers innocuously.

“Get me the bookstore's contact file. I want everything she has listed—emails, business numbers, and next-of-kin, if they exist.”

He hesitates, and that damn almost-smile returns, before he says, “Of course. Though I imagine it would’ve been easier to ask her before you let her fall asleep on you.”

At his apparent insubordination, I swing around towards him and demand, “Did I ask for commentary?”

“No, sir,” he answers plainly, unfazed by my rising irritation.

“Then shut up and move,” I order, fed up with his bullshit.

Griffin leaves, a serene smile lingering on his face, and the door shuts behind him with a click that echoes louder than it should.

The silence around me is unbearable. My office, usually also a sanctuary of order, power, and control, now feels empty too. Her laughter isn’t resonating around me. Her scent isn’t permeating my office space. Her smart mouth isn’t sassing me at every turn.

I sit back down behind my desk, and the laptop screen blinks at me. There are fourteen emails, two flagged as ‘urgent’, and none of them matter.

Because all I want is to know if she slept okay after I left. And if she dreamed of me like I dreamt of her. And if she misses me already, because I miss her, and I’ve never missed anyone, *ever*.

Instead of answering anything, I rip open the top drawer of my desk and slam it shut again almost immediately.

Then I spiral. Hard.

Every phone call is barked into, and every suggestion in the morning meeting gets shot down. The Singapore proposal gets sent back five times, each time with a new list of nitpicky corrections that would make my own legal team cry. By mid-morning, two employees ask to reschedule their meetings, and one even fakes a dentist appointment. Griffin stays calm through it all, even when I chew him out for bringing the wrong report I didn’t ask for until five minutes ago.

He just patiently stands there like a man watching a slow-motion train wreck happening in real-time.

“You’ve been in a mood since you walked in, sir,” he off-handedly says as he refills my espresso. “Want to talk about it?”

I glare at him like I might incinerate him on the spot. “Not unless you’ve got her number tucked in your back pocket.”

Griffin lifts a brow, but says nothing. Just sets the coffee down and leaves with a small, knowing smile. God, I hate him. And I hate that he’s right.

This building, this office, this whole *life* I’ve built feels meaningless in the absence of a woman who called me *Lord Glowerpants* without flinching—and somehow made it sound like the sexiest insult I’ve ever received.

I stare down at the untouched coffee and think, *I’m in so much fucking trouble.*