Sweet Hatred-Chapter 169: Darker heat

He helped me into the helicopter like it was second nature, like dragging someone into midair wasn’t psychotic behavior. His hand settled on my waist too long as I strapped in, his gloved fingers brushing my thigh when he reached across me for the buckle. Casual, not casual.

I hated the way I let myself lean just a little closer when the engine roared to life.

The flight was short but terrifyingly beautiful. The sun was beginning to dip, casting the clouds in honeyed gold. My thoughts spun with it—faster and louder than the blades above.

Then we descended.

Down toward a cliffside retreat.

It looked like something out of a billionaire’s Pinterest board. Modern glass and stone architecture built into the rock, fire pits glowing near the edge, dark whiskey in expensive glasses clinking beside low, murmured conversation. There were only six people seated in curved leather chairs around the fire—and one of them turned and waved lazily at Kael.

"You dragged me out of work for this?" I hissed, standing frozen just outside the helicopter.

Kael stepped beside me, the wind tugging his wool coat dramatically behind him. His black turtleneck clung to him like it was stitched with sin, and he looked like a damn villain out of Vogue.

"For this," he said softly.

And fuck him, but for a second, I forgot about the world, the grief, the work, the rules.

Just me. Kael.

And a fire-lit view worth billions.

The warmth from the fire hit me first then the weight of the stares.

Six of them. All men, mid-forties to sixties, dressed like they’d just stepped out of a Forbes profile shoot. Navy suits, tailored coats, calm expressions that said, we play poker with countries for fun.

Kael placed a hand on the small of my back, not forceful, but enough. Enough to make my whole body remember the way his hands had looked wrapped in leather earlier.

"Gentlemen," he said, his voice smooth and lazy. "This is Aria Thorne. She’s overseeing several of our legal operations on the energy portfolio. One of our best."

One of our best. The words hit me like a slap. Not assistant. Not staff. Not "my personal headache." Just—best. I don’t think I had any pride left.

A man with peppered hair and a bored gaze nodded toward me. "The one with the Benedetti deal rewrite?"

Kael smirked. "The same."

I blinked. How did they—

The older man actually smiled. "Brutal revision. Very clean. You kept all the Roman terms but flipped the indemnity clause in our favor. Slick work."

My mouth opened. Closed. "Uh—thank you."

Kael leaned in to murmur near my ear, "Told you I brag about you."

I wanted to scream. Or drink. Or shove him into the fire pit and roll in after him.

Instead, I sat down in the empty chair beside him, legs crossed, back straight, like I wasn’t internally spiraling from that small whisper and the praise I didn’t even realize I’d craved.

One of the other men, dark skinned, with amber eyes like mine and the kind of watch that probably had its own tax bracket, poured me a glass of whiskey. "You’re Kael’s first guest here."

My fingers tightened around the glass. "Guess I should feel honored."

Kael’s fingers brushed my knee. "You should."

He was relaxed, legs spread like a king, one arm lazily draped across the back of my chair. The conversation picked up again, talk about merging biotech distribution rights, oil revenue forecasts, and regulatory loopholes that made my head ache.

But Kael—Kael didn’t stop watching me.

And the way he touched me? Subtle. Possessive. Sometimes just his glove barely grazing the fabric of my skirt and blouse. Sometimes a thumb sweeping over the edge of my knee.

It was maddening.

I was supposed to be smart. Professional. Collected.

But all I could think about was the heat of the fire... and the darker, heavier heat smoldering beside me.

"So, Miss Thorne," one of the men, silver-haired, sharp-jawed, arrogant in the way only someone with inherited power could be, said as he swirled the amber liquor in his glass. "You single?"

I blinked.

The question hit the group like a slow-sinking bomb. One of the other men chuckled quietly, another shifted like even he knew that was dangerous territory.

I opened my mouth, brain scrambling for the most professional, most unbothered response—

But Kael beat me to it.

"She’s unavailable," he said, his voice velvet-smooth but laced with something ice-cold underneath. "And irrelevant to this discussion."

The man raised a brow. "Didn’t mean to offend. Just making conversation."

Kael’s smile didn’t reach his eyes. "Then let’s talk about something more productive. Like how your division is bleeding capital from that failed Scandinavian expansion."

The man froze. Blinked. The whiskey in his glass stilled.

Across the fire, another exec let out a single low whistle, muttering, "Shit."

Kael tilted his head, still smiling, but his fingers on my thigh had stilled, tight now, pressing just enough to be a silent warning. Mine.

I didn’t breathe.

I didn’t have to.

Because every man around the fire had just seen it.

The quiet war declared.

The lines drawn.

And Kael?

He never took his eyes off the man as he took a slow sip of his drink, gloved fingers perfectly curled around the glass.

The conversation picked up again after a beat, more cautious this time, clipped, respectful.

And Kael leaned toward me, whispering low enough that only I could hear:

"Let one of them look at you like that again, and I’ll buy out their companies just to make them beg for relevance."

What in the fifty shades of grey?

My heart punched my ribs. I didn’t respond. Didn’t have to. Because the heat I felt wasn’t from the fire anymore, it was from the storm brewing beside me.

I leaned closer and reached for his collar, curling two fingers around it and tugging gently, not enough to fix it, not enough to wrinkle it either. Just... enough to get his attention.

His dark eyes slid to me, amused.

I leaned in, voice a whisper against his jaw. "Was that really necessary?"

A slow smirk tugged at his lips. "Absolutely."

The word buzzed across my skin.

God. Of course it was.

The fire crackled as the meeting slowly started to wind down, whiskey glasses lighter, voices more languid, conversation meandering. Kael had relaxed into his seat, one ankle resting over his knee, fingers tapping idly against the leather armrest like he owned everyone and everything in this room.

Which, apparently, he now did.

And just like that, the men started to rise, shaking hands and buttoning coats as their ride back to the helipad arrived. Kael stood with them, casual and fluid, in control even as he shifted into host mode.

But then...

The dark skinned man, the man who had mostly stayed silent all evening, Gale, paused by Kael’s side.

"You liked the birthday gift, I hope?" he asked with a wry smile, eyes flicking to me for half a second.

Kael nodded, straightening the cuff of his glove like he was bored. "It was satisfactory."

Birthday gift?

Wait.

Birthday gift?

The words didn’t register at first. They just sat there, echoing in my skull, heavy and meaningless.

Until they weren’t.

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