In August, the heat felt like it could melt the whole city.
Every night at ten, Adrian Blackwell found himself getting restless. That was the exact moment Clara Sutherland headed into their shared bathroom to take her shower. He rented a dirt‑cheap room, and the two of them used the same bathroom. Because the place was ancient, one loose brick in the wall wobbled a little. Adrian had noticed it on his very first day, and from then on… well, he started his shameless little ritual.
He knew it wasn’t exactly honorable. But honestly, he blamed Clara for being too stunning for her own good. The woman was pure temptation wrapped in perfect curves.
Clara was twenty‑eight, working as a salesperson in a phone shop. Divorced, raising her six‑year‑old daughter Snowy on her own in this city. Every night when she came home in her black blazer, tight black skirt, and sheer stockings, Adrian felt the blood in his veins go wild.
This woman… she was dangerously captivating. She had that natural allure, that kind of charm that hit straight in the gut. Her cheeks always looked like fresh peaches—soft, pink, like you could squeeze juice out of them.
At that moment, the sound of running water drifted from the bathroom.
Adrian glanced at the clock, excitement flickering in his eyes. Ten o’clock on the dot. Clara was as punctual as a machine.
He hopped out of bed and hurried to the loose brick, pulling it aside.
In this summer heat, heating water was a pain, so Clara used cold showers. No steam. No fog. Perfect for Adrian.
Through the small gap, he saw her slip out of her clothes, skin catching the light as she rubbed shower gel over herself.
Only after a long, long while did Adrian finally put the brick back and exhale in satisfaction. This life… honestly felt way too good to be real.
He lay on his bed afterward, lit a cigarette. People always talked about a post‑moment cigarette—well, this was his version of it.
Sometime later, he drifted into a deep sleep.
In the middle of the night, he started dreaming.
He was back in the African jungle.
Dense branches overhead, the heavy smell of gunpowder floating in the air.
“Big bro… I messed up. Just kill me,” Nathan Thornwood—his second‑in‑command—was on his knees in front of him, crying so hard his voice cracked.
Pain flickered in Adrian’s eyes. He and Nathan had been through hell together, brothers bound by life‑and‑death.
Back then, he and Nathan Thornwood had built the Blood Wolf Mercenary Group from scratch.
The name Adrian Blackwell—Wolf King—was practically a legend whispered across the entire mercenary world.
But because Nathan had gotten careless for one single night, drunk on a moment of pleasure, he let crucial intel slip into enemy hands. The Blood Wolf team was wiped out almost to the last man—dead or crippled. If Adrian hadn’t clawed them back from the brink, the whole group would’ve vanished from the map.
“Go,” Adrian said after a long silence, his voice low and heavy. “From today on, you’re no longer one of us.”
Nathan’s whole body trembled. His voice tore out of his throat, raw and desperate. “Brother… in life, I’m Blood Wolf. In death, I’m Blood Wolf’s ghost. Next life… we’ll be brothers again.”
Bang.
Nathan collapsed into a spreading pool of blood. He’d shot himself.
The speed of the Broken Wolf’s draw—almost no one could match it. Not even Adrian had been fast enough to stop him.
“Nathan!” Adrian jerked upright in bed, breath harsh, eyes bloodshot. The moment he thought of Nathan’s death, that pain stabbed so deep it still stole the air from his lungs.
Right now, Adrian wasn’t the scumbag sneaking peeks through a loose brick. He was a wounded lone wolf, bleeding somewhere no one could see.
He murmured, voice low and hoarse, “Nathan… don’t worry. I know who you cared about the most in this life—your sister. I’ll protect her. She won’t suffer a single bit of harm.”
At seven in the morning, Adrian got up on time. He grabbed his toothbrush cup and headed to the shared bathroom—only to see Clara Sutherland from next door bent over the sink in a tight black skirt, hips slightly raised as she washed her face.
The skirt hugged her curves so closely it almost looked painted on.
Adrian froze behind her, eyes practically lighting up. Seriously… first thing in the morning and she’s dressed like *that*? How was a man supposed to keep it together?
His mind flashed back to last night—when he’d peeked through the loose tile and seen her in the shower, that intoxicating scene replaying in perfect detail.
Just thinking about it made his body react.
Right then, Clara finished washing up. She turned—and caught sight of him.
Adrian almost panicked. If she noticed… if she even suspected why his body was reacting… she’d instantly figure out everything filthy in his head.
His mind raced. In a split second he bent over, clutching his stomach, face twisted in fake agony. “Sorry… stomachache. Really need to go.”
Clara herself was still walking a little stiffly. She’d been about to greet him, but after hearing that, she quickly stepped aside. “I’m done anyway. Go ahead.”
Adrian slipped into the bathroom and shut the door behind him. Only then did he finally exhale in relief.
Inwardly, he muttered, That Clara… she’s basically a walking temptation. A little demon sent to test a man’s self-control.
Back when he was drifting around overseas, Adrian Blackwell had met all kinds of women—fiery Russian bombshells, bold American girls, soft‑spoken French charmers. He’d seen plenty of beauty, but somehow none of them carried the same quiet allure Clara Sutherland had. She was the kind of woman whose presence lingered in a man’s mind, no matter how far he’d been.
After washing up, Adrian straightened the room out, ready to head out. Coincidentally, Clara stepped out at the same time, holding little Snowy Sutherland’s hand.
Snowy looked absolutely adorable today, dressed in a tiny white dress and shiny black shoes, like a tiny princess from a picture book. The moment she spotted Adrian, her eyes lit up.
“Good morning, Uncle!” she chirped, sweet as sugar.
Adrian couldn’t help but grin. “Morning, Snowy.” He strode over, scooped her up easily, and teased, “Come on, give Uncle a kiss.”
Snowy immediately leaned in, planting a wet, giggly kiss on his cheek.
Clara stood nearby, watching quietly. She didn’t stop them; if anything, her expression softened. She genuinely felt Adrian was a good man—sunny, dependable, and always kind to her daughter.
Of course, if she ever learned he peeked at her shower every night through that loose bathroom tile—and even treated her as part of his fantasies—she would’ve skinned him alive.
Just as the three of them were stepping outside, a van screeched to a stop at the entrance.
Four men jumped out. Leading them was no one else but Vincent Coaker—Clara’s ex‑husband.
Vincent wore a wrinkled black shirt, hair messy as if he’d rolled out of some dingy gambling den minutes ago. Clara stiffened instantly. She would never forget the hurt this man had caused her. Once upon a time, they’d been the campus couple everyone envied; Vincent had even been student council president. Now? He was nothing but a gambling‑addicted wreck.
Clara’s face went pale on the spot.
Snowy trembled and buried her face in Adrian’s chest like a frightened kitten.
Adrian tightened his hold on her, lowering his voice gently. “Hey, it’s okay. Uncle’s right here. I’ve got you.”
Clara stepped forward, her voice cold enough to freeze steel. “What are you doing here?”
Vincent’s gaze slid over Clara, then over Adrian, and his lips curled into a disgusting smile. “Well, well… Clara, you little fox. Didn’t take you long to find yourself a new guy, huh? But seriously, your taste really dropped. This dude? He looks broke as hell. Can he even satisfy you?”
His words were filthy, dripping with contempt.
Clara’s fury shot straight up. Her chest rose and fell sharply as she snapped, “Watch your mouth.”
Vincent only snorted. “Please. You were all saintly in front of me, but who knows what tricks you were up to behind my back? Whatever. I’m not here to argue. Hand over thirty thousand. Now.”
