10. Connor O’Doyle

Chapter 10

Connor O’Doyle

Beware of dog .

For some reason, Frank’s arrival at the castle wasn’t as problematic until now. I have the distinct impression if he so much as touches her, I will out him, reveal myself, and the whole fucking castle will be doomed.

His hand engulfs hers, and a shudder runs through me.

The hairs on my arms stand on end and my brow furrows when Frank smiles, his expression mirroring that of an almost happy person.

“What the fuck are you doing?” I announce.

“Who?” they both answer, and I’m instantly furious.

Whitley’s frown disappears, a shy smile I’ve never seen on her face pulling at her pouty lips as they stare at one another. What the fuck?

My pulse races, but I slide a nonchalant grin on my face. “Frank. What are you doing?” I ask with a calm that belies the rage thundering in my veins.

“Oh, I forgot to mention something from our earlier discussion, old friend.” He says this preposterous bullshit and turns back to Whitley. “Sorry to interrupt, Miss...?”

“Whitt.” She tucks her hair behind her ear, becoming this strange schoolgirl instead of the hellcat she shows me. “Whitley Whitt.”

“Charmed,” the giant fuckwad says.

“Frank,” I bite out, my claws threatening to gouge into my desk.

“Hmm. What’s wrong, old chap?” he says, and I notice a tightness around his eyes that I don’t trust. He glances down at her before shifting his focus back to me.

I may not like the woman, but I’ll be fucked if he goes near her. Or any of the guests.

“Are you staying at the castle long?” he asks her, the smile on his face completely at odds with the monster I know him to be. Frank never smiles.

No. He’s up to something, and he’s trying to dig.

“I’m the chef,” she says with a light giggle. “If you need anything specific made, I’m happy to whip it up for you, but I’m sure it’s nothing like your professional chefs.”

I stare in horror at her offer. This vexing chit has never offered to make me something other than fucking cupcakes, like she wants to give me diabetes and ruin my day.

“That sounds delightful. I’ll be sticking around for a little while, business with Mr. O’Doyle here, you see, so I may just take you up on that offer.” The shithead doesn’t even eat real food and would never. Why is he talking to a human?

“Frank. I’m in the middle of a hotel-related business meeting,” I say, wanting him gone but trying not to reveal that this woman and her scent puts me on edge. “You know better than to waltz in here. This isn’t Talbot, nor your domain.”

Hating being told what to do, his head whips to mine, and a faint glow lights in his irises before dimming. I meet his stare head-on, knowing he will have a lot of questions later, but for now, I need him away from her before I lose my shit entirely.

I don’t even know why it bothers me, only that it has my fur itching beneath my skin to come out. Wolfing out right now would be an absolute disaster, and then Frank would take glee in shutting her up, permanently .

Jekyll’s medicine is either a placebo or he’s lost his damn touch as a mad scientist. I’m going to have to tell him his concoction isn’t doing shit.

“That’s fine,” Frank answers, picking at the sleeve of his suit to appear unfazed. “I’ll reconvene with you later, once you’re done playing hotel.” His tone is clearly an insult to everything I’m trying to do here. He turns to leave, bowing to her on the way out. The snake. “I will see you later for a meal, Miss Whitt.”

The moment he’s gone, and I hear his fat feet lumbering down the hallway, I settle back into my chair. What’s just transpired doesn’t sit well with me. Frank may appear to the world as a cool-headed businessman extraordinaire, but in our world, he’s a ruthless killer.

Other than the concerning news about who infiltrated his network security with their last data footprint being the castle, he’s probably here to check in and make sure no one else knows about our kind after what happened with Vlad and his new mate, Aubrey.

A chill creeps up my spine. What if he suspects Whitley has something to do with Talbot’s breach? Fuck.

“So, you will wear your regular attire for now,” I tell her, turning to greet her amber eyes. “I’ll also hire more wait staff, so you don’t have to interact with the guests as much.”

Hopefully that keeps them apart for as long as I can.

She goes still, regarding me with a strange expression, as if she doesn’t understand my sudden change of heart. “What?”

I just know I need her as far away from him as I can get her—now. Everyone who was here during Talbot’s breach has been under investigation, but I can already tell that neither she, Aubrey, nor George had anything to do with it. This woman barely uses her social media platforms, and she doesn’t appear to have a single device in her private room that could be used to hack any system.

But if Frank gets involved in my investigation, shit will hit the fan.

“You will not be required to join in the festivities.” It will make her happy, as she won’t have to wear anything and she’ll have less responsibility, since she won’t have to hand out so many of her meals personally. It fixes all the issues, especially revolving around that giant. “Yes. Good. You may go.”

My hands shake uncontrollably as I stand up and head for the door, and after gesturing for her to go through it, I clasp them behind my back.

“What? Just like that?” she asks, her tone telling me I’ve finally rendered her speechless.

My hands fall to my side, clenching into fists, and my blood begins to boil. This stubborn brat. “Woman, can’t you be happy? I thought this was exactly what you wanted!”

“No, I just need a costume that fits.”

“This way you don’t need one at all. I will speak with Frederick.”

“It’s precisely about the costume that I wanted to speak. I don’t need it to be masculine. I just need it to fit and not risk burning myself or this big-ass castle down with you in it. As tempting as that is.” The cheeky bitch doesn’t know when to quit, obviously not sensing the danger she is in.

“You are the most troublesome woman I have ever met.” I inwardly seethe, attempting to keep my heart rate down for fear of showing her my true eye color. It is always the first sign I’m losing hold on my form, but that usually never happens—until her and her stupid perfume I’ve been forced to breathe for days. I hastily move to the window and fling it open, sucking in blessedly clean air.

“Must you argue with everything I say? And do you always flirt with every male you meet?” I blurt, surprising us both.

“I don’t even know why I bother trying to have an adult conversation with you. Do you hear yourself right now?” A look of scorn flashes across her face before she moves to the door. “I should have just emailed.”

“Next time, see that you do. And no more wandering the halls. Just do your job and stay in your designated wing.”

“You are not the boss of me. I don’t care who cuts the checks.”

I step into her without fear or remorse, because whether she likes it or not, I am her boss, and I’m trying to protect my employee.

“Whitley,” her name rumbles out of me, my voice deepening. I watch her nostrils flare with hate when I reach up and tuck that indomitable stray lock of her hair that never stays in place behind her delectable ear. “I am the fucking boss of you.”

My chest brushes hers, and I breathe slowly, the soft scent of her arousal filling the air between us. Her pupils dilate, cheeks beginning to redden. Interesting that even while Frank was attempting to woo her, no such smell came from her. I bend and inhale more closely before I can stop myself.

Her breath catches and she turns around, her hand trembling. “You may be my boss, Connor, but you don’t own me,” she says, her gaze leveling on me with heat and anger. “And nothing in my contract says I’m to be barred from enjoying all areas of the hotel during my employment. If you’re trying to punish me for insubordination, do it in a way that fits into our contract.”

She lifts her chin as she storms down the hall. I watch her hips swing as she tries to suppress her anger... or desire—I’m not sure which. The woman is a firecracker. Her hands ball into fists as she lets out a strangled scream in frustration and turns a corner out of sight.

My mind lingers on the end of our conversation, and I groan when I realize my dick is hard from our arguing. It happens almost every damn time, and it’s frustrating to no end.

“‘You don’t own me,’ she says.” I drag my hands down my face.

And of course I imagine just that—owning her curves, her substantial arse beneath my hands, my face buried against her skin. Her lips open on a scream as I fuck her senseless while my fingers are around her throat, making sure she shuts her fucking mouth while I do it .

My cock leaps up to attention, straining against the zipper of my slacks. Damn .

I have too much to worry about: Frank, the guests, the other staff, and Whitley—not to mention the way she arouses me. Fuck, I should have told her not to speak of the owner of Talbot being here; the last thing I need is paparazzi on top of all my shit to deal with.

If Frank still thinks I’m the one who hacked Talbot, and he attempts to play Whitley or any other female staff to get to me, it’s a threat he won’t get the chance to come through on. I couldn’t care less who hacked his company, and I have no designs on Whitley.

He deserves a woman who will have him wrapped around her little finger. As for Whitley, she can do much better than the likes of me.

However, once she sees what an asshole he is, she will chew him up and spit him out herself.

I lean back in my chair, trying to ignore how agitating it is to be around Frank.

I breathe in deeply and a snarl rips out of me. How does her scent fill the air of the study even now? She stormed off, but her perfect ass sat on that chair fuming with her cupcake-and-spice heady aroma plastered to it from her baking and her anger.

I leap to my feet to leave, needing to do something, anything, before I have the urge to sniff at her chair like a crack addict. My hand begins to shake as my cock swells to the point of pain in my tailored pants.

As I adjust myself with a wince and make to leave, I pause as a potential answer registers with me. “Oh shit,” I mutter. “What if she’s wearing wolfsbane?”

Why hadn’t I thought of that earlier? Damn .

I grab my phone from my pocket and fire off a text.

Me:

When can you start a new trial?

Jekyll:

Not working?

Me:

I think we have been going at it all wrong. It’s not my nose. It’s the perfume she’s wearing. It has to be Wolfsbane. It’s the only thing that makes sense.

Jekyll:

I hadn’t thought of that. Surprisingly.

“No shit.” Neither of us had, but it’s the only thing that makes sense. The herb, so rarely put into perfume these days, is potent even in small increments—especially to me.

Me:

What can you do?

I glance down at the tent in my slacks which is finally lowering—thank fuck—for the first time since she entered the study an hour ago. I’ve been blind. Fucking Odette and her witch magic. Gods, this is a disaster.

Jekyll:

You’re going to have to get her perfume to test it.

Me:

You’re taking the piss, right?

Jekyll:

Afraid not, mate.

Fuck.