[BL] Bound to My Enemy: The Billionaire Who Took My Girl-Chapter 70: Puppy

CASSIAN

The office smelled of expensive leather, Cyan’s floral cologne, and the faint, metallic scent of the heavy-duty safes built into the walls. We had been back from lunch for nearly two hours, the Spanish sun beginning to dip low enough to cast long, skeletal shadows across the velvet furniture.

Cyan was surprisingly efficient when he wasn’t trying to climb me like a tree. He’d laid out a map of the Seville docks, marking three specific warehouses that didn’t appear on any official manifest.

"The Lorenzo family doesn’t use the main terminals anymore," Cyan said, his voice dropping the theatrical lilt. He tapped a manicured finger on a warehouse near the Guadalquivir River. "They use the ’Ghost Docks.’ My contact in the harbor master’s office says a shipment is due in forty-eight hours. High-end textiles on the surface. Something much heavier underneath."

I leaned back, memorizing the coordinates. "Guns? Or the product?"

"Both. And word is, a Lorenzo cousin is coming in to oversee the hand-off." Cyan leaned back, the sharp clarity in his eyes softening as he transitioned back into his usual, chaotic self. "Business done. Now... let’s talk about the puppy."

I didn’t move a muscle. I didn’t even blink. "I don’t know what you’re talking about."

"Oh, please. Don’t play dumb with me, Cassie," Cyan grinned, sliding closer to me on the sofa. "Your little assistant. Noah. He follows you around like a lost soul. The tension between you two is so thick I could use it to hang my winter collection. You might as well just fuck him already and get it over with. It’s exhausting to watch."

"Mind your business."

Cyan let out a bark of laughter. "Ehhhh. You’re both so prideful it’s almost funny. He looks like an abandoned puppy every time you look past him. You’ve noticed, haven’t you?"

I felt a slight tightening in my chest, a sensation I chose to ignore. I had noticed. I’d spent the last few days intentionally looking through him, treating him with the same clinical detachment I’d show a spreadsheet. It was a lesson. Noah had overstepped. He’d spent time with Alex Hendrix after I’d explicitly told him the man was dangerous.

"He’s... needy," I said, my voice carefully neutral.

"He looks like an abandoned puppy because you made him one," Cyan countered, his tone turning surprisingly serious. "You trained him to want your attention. You gave him just enough to make him crave it, and now you’re surprised he’s starving when you pull the plate away?"

I didn’t answer. The silence was an admission. I knew exactly what I was doing. I was punishing him. I wanted him to feel the weight of my absence so that when I finally decided to reach out again, he’d never dream of defying me again. It was about control. It was about boundaries.

But, as I watched the dust motes dance in the light, I had to admit... to myself, never to Cyan... that the silence was driving me just as insane.

Every time I saw the hurt flicker in Noah’s green eyes, every time I saw his shoulders slump when I walked past him without a word, a part of me wanted to catch him by the throat and pull him back into my orbit.

"Noah seems like the type to trust easily," Cyan said, breaking my train of thought. He wasn’t smirking anymore. "Especially when someone is being nice to him."

My posture shifted. I hadn’t moved, but the air around me sharpened. "What is that supposed to mean?"

"You know I’ve known Alex Hendrix for years," Cyan said. "He’s... calculated. Everything he does has a reason. He’s the kind of guy who collects people. Especially vulnerable ones. He’s charming, patient, and he knows exactly what to say to someone who feels neglected."

Cyan leaned in, his eyes searching mine. "He’s been spending a lot of time with your puppy, Cassie. And if you keep ignoring Noah, Alex is going to scoop him right up. Not because he wants him, but because he knows you do."

My jaw tightened so hard I felt the bone ache. A flicker of something dark and ancient crossed my mind... a territorial snarl that wanted to find Alex and remind him why people in prison used to whisper my name in fear.

Cyan caught it immediately. He let out a delighted little chirp. "There it is. You do care."

"I care about my assets," I growled.

"Sure, darling. Whatever helps you sleep."

A knock at the door interrupted the tension. One of Cyan’s staff entered, carrying a large, heavy-duty cardboard box. "Your delivery is here, sir."

Cyan lit up like a Christmas tree. He practically bounced to the door, taking the box with an uncharacteristic grunt of effort.

"What the fuck is in that?" I asked, watching him drag it over to the coffee table.

"My newest toys!" Cyan announced, his eyes gleaming with entirely too much enthusiasm.

"Toys," I repeated, my tone flat. I already knew where this was going.

"Of course! I’ve been collecting all kinds," Cyan said, ripping the tape off the box. "Not just the dildos on the walls. I like variety, Cassie."

He began pulling items out. It was a cornucopia of high-end adult gear. Velvet-lined handcuffs, silk ropes, intricate leather collars, and glass vibrators that looked more like art pieces than sex toys.

I stared into the box, my expression a wall of stone. "You’re a weirdo, Cyan."

"Ugh!" Cyan pulled out a pair of leather cuffs and pouted. "This isn’t the right shade. I specifically asked for midnight black, not charcoal. This looks like something you’d find in a bargain bin. And this rope? Too stiff. Completely unusable for the delicate skin I had in mind."

He huffed, tossing a set of silver nipple clamps back into the box with a dramatic clatter. "I don’t even want this anymore. It’s ruined." He looked at me, a mischievous glint returning to his eyes. "Do you want it?"

"No."

"Are you sure? Some of these would look great on your little assistant," Cyan wiggled his eyebrows, holding up a sleek black leather collar with a silver ring. "Think about it. You could lead him around the suite. He’d probably thank you for the attention."

"I said no."

"But it’s such a waste..."

"Cyan." My voice was a low warning.

"Fine, fine. I’ll just have it delivered to your suite," he laughed.

"If I see that shit in front of my door, I will send snipers to take you out," I said, though there was no real heat in the threat.

Cyan laughed, the sound bright and genuine. He leaned back, the gear forgotten, and picked up his glass of wine. The atmosphere shifted again, turning heavier, more familiar. Cyan moved closer, his hand coming to rest on my thigh, his thumb tracing the fabric of my trousers.

I didn’t push him away. We had done this dance a hundred times in the dark corners of the prison yard and in the quiet of his various apartments over the years. It was easy. It didn’t require emotions or "needy" eyes. It was just heat and history.

Cyan leaned into my space, his breath ghosting over my jaw. His hand slid higher, his fingers pressing into the muscle of my leg. "You’re so tense, Cassie. You need to relax."

His face was inches from mine. I could see the flecks of gold in his eyes. I started to lean in, the familiar pull of a mindless distraction tugging at me—

Buzz.

My phone vibrated on the table.

I pulled back, breaking the spell. Cyan groaned, but I ignored him, reaching for the device. I expected a text from Lake or a security alert from the site.

I saw a notification from Noah.

I frowned. He never texted me unless it was an emergency or a document confirmation. I tapped the screen.

The world stopped.

It was a photo. In the strobe-lit chaos of a club, Noah was pinned against a wall. His face was flushed, his eyes half-closed in what looked like a drunken haze.

And Alex Hendrix had his hand wrapped around Noah’s jaw, his lips pressed firmly against Noah’s.

Cyan leaned over, his eyes widening as he caught a glimpse of the screen before the image flickered and vanished, replaced by the words: ’Message deleted.’

"Oh. Oh my god," Cyan breathed, a hand flying to his mouth. "Looks like I was right about Alex and Noah. The puppy found a new porch to sit on."

I felt bamboozled. It was the only word for it. My brain, usually a precision instrument of strategy and logic, was misfiring. I knew Noah was impulsive. I knew he was reckless.

But the sheer, unadulterated audacity required to send that photo to me was something I hadn’t accounted for. He wasn’t just stepping on my toes; he was trying to break them.

A new notification appeared. ’Sorry, wrong person.’