CRAVING DADDY'S BEST FRIEND

Chapter Forty Five: The Alpine Rest

Abigail Macron

The low, electronic ping of the elevator didn’t bring another tactical squad or a corporate enforcement team. Instead, the doors slid open to reveal Greta, the house manager, pushing a heavy mahogany cart. Her face remained a mask of flawless Swiss professionalism, entirely ignoring the ruined clothes on the floor and the raw, heavy air of the dining wing. She simply set a sealed silver tray and a crystal bowl on the sideboard, bowed slightly, and withdrew back into the elevator without a single word.

The corporate war had paused, leaving a vacuum of pure, exhaustive silence in its wake.

"Looks like Victoria authorized the kitchen staff before she left," Caleb said, his deep baritone still slightly rough from the adrenaline.

He had pulled on a pair of dark cotton trousers, his broad chest still bare and gleaming with a faint sheen of sweat under the midday sun. He walked over to the sideboard, lifting the heavy silver lids. The scent of roasted rosemary chicken, fresh alpine greens, and warm crusty bread immediately filled the room, cutting through the heavy scent of s*x and cold slate. Next to the tray sat a deep, insulated silver container overflowing with artisanal vanilla bean ice cream and fresh mountain berries.

I didn't bother looking for my silk robe. I simply reached down, pulled Caleb’s discarded charcoal dress shirt off the floor, and slipped it over my shoulders. The heavy cotton hung halfway down my thighs, completely enveloping me in his scent of smoky leather and fresh winter air.

"I didn't realize the vanguard ate," I murmured, a faint, lawless smile touching my lips as I walked over to the sideboard, my bare feet clicking softly against the tile.

"The vanguard burns about four thousand calories a day keeping you alive, kiddo," Caleb rasped. A dark, possessive glint flared in his eyes as he watched the hem of his shirt ride up my pale thighs. He didn't wait for plates. He picked up a torn piece of the warm bread, dipped it into the roasted chicken juices, and held it out to my lips.

I bit down, the rich, savory taste exploding against my tongue, reminding me that I hadn't eaten a real meal since Los Angeles. We ate standing right there against the sideboard, a primitive, ravenous consumption that mirrored the way we had claimed each other hours prior.

When the savory food was gone, Caleb grabbed a heavy silver spoon, digging a massive scoop of the freezing vanilla ice cream directly from the container. Instead of feeding me, he brought the spoon to his own mouth, then closed the distance between us in one heavy stride.

His hand shot out, his large fingers gripping the back of my neck to tilt my head back as his mouth crashed down on mine.

The contrast was staggering—the freezing, sweet shock of the ice cream parting my lips, melting instantly against the white-hot heat of his tongue as he drove it deep into my mouth. I let out a soft, choked whimper, my hands flying to his bare shoulders, holding onto his thick muscles for balance as the sugary coldness mixed with the raw, familiar taste of him. He sucked on my tongue, drinking in my groans until the ice cream vanished completely into a warm, breathless kiss.

"Still cold, Abby?" he whispered against my lips, his thumb tracing the flush of my cheekbone with a rough intensity.

"Not anymore," I breathed, my heart striking a rapid, steady rhythm. "Get your coat, Caleb. I need to get out of this house."

Twenty minutes later, we cleared the heavy steel security perimeter of the estate on foot.

I had changed into a thick charcoal wool coat, heavy boots, and dark jeans, my blonde hair pulled back securely. Caleb walked beside me, towering over me in a dark tactical jacket, his hands shoved deep into his pockets, his eyes scanning the dense pine tree line with the unblinking vigilance of a man who still didn't trust the silence.

The mountain air was crisp and brutally clean, biting at our flushed faces as we followed a narrow, gravel path that wound down the ridge toward the gray, mist-shrouded waters of the lake below.

The brutalist fortress of the Macron estate slowly shrank behind us, built into the vertical rock face like a concrete tooth. For the first time in my entire life, looking back at it didn't give me that suffocating sense of captivity. The walls hadn't changed, but the ownership papers had.

"What happens when David reaches Manhattan?" I asked, the gravel crunching beneath my boots as the wind howled through the high pine canopy above us.

Caleb stopped walking, turning his gaze out over the vast, empty expanse of the alpine valley. "He’ll try to liquidate his personal assets to buy back the secondary board seats. He’ll call every favor, every political connection, and every shadow fund he’s built over the last forty years."

He stepped closer, his massive frame completely blocking the wind as he reached out, his gloved hand catching the lapel of my wool coat, pulling me flush against his chest.

"But it won't matter," Caleb whispered, his dark eyes burning with a cold, absolute certainty that made my pulse strike a sudden, sharp beat. "Because by the time his jet touches down at JFK, the New York land titles will have already been re-registered under your name. You aren't his daughter on the ledger anymore, Abby. You're his primary creditor."

I looked up at him, the silver mountain light reflecting in the dark depths of his pupils. The empire was ours, the throne was secure, but as I looked down at the freezing waters of the lake below, I knew the real war hadn't ended.

We had just survived the first deployment