Chapter 183: Chapter 183: Rage

Rage.

It hit clean and hot, a surge so sudden Max had to lock his teeth together to keep it from showing on his face. George didn’t say the name like a casual question. He said it like a pin slid into a pressure point: gentle, precise, and intended to see what would bleed.

Max’s smile did not move. He kept it mild, almost bored. “He’s a singer.”

George’s green eyes brightened with that predatory satisfaction reserved for men who believed they’d found a soft seam. “Ah,” he murmured, swirling his tea as if this were gossip rather than leverage. “And yet he seems… close.”

Max breathed in through his nose, slowly, carefully. The mask demanded calm. The mask demanded patience. The mask demanded that he not lunge across a tea table and put George’s head through porcelain.

“He’s not close,” Max said, his voice even. “He’s contracted talent.”

George’s smile widened, slow and pleased, like Max had offered him exactly the line he wanted to break.

“Contracted talent,” George echoed. “Contracted talent doesn’t visit your manor the same day you’re flagged with a rut.”

Max didn’t blink.

Not because the words didn’t land. Because blinking was a tell, and George lived for tells.

Years of sitting across from this man had honed Max into perfect theatrics. The kind that appeared effortless because it was built for survival. He kept his posture open, his hands loose, and his expression attentive in exactly the way George expected—warm enough to be flattering but controlled enough to be safe.

Inside, rage burned.

It didn’t touch his face.

He offered the smallest, polite smile. “People visit for many reasons.”

George watched him like a man listening to music and waiting for the wrong note.

Then his demeanor changed to the version of George that used to make Max feel special.

“Max,” George said softly, “you don’t have to be so reserved with me.”

Max let his charm settle into place like jewelry he wore every day. “I’m not reserved,” he said. “I’m careful.”

George’s eyes gleamed, as if that answer pleased him. “I understand,” he murmured, his tone gentled into something almost intimate. “Truly. You needed an omega to… regulate yourself.”

Max’s fingers remained relaxed on his knee by sheer discipline. He didn’t correct the assumption. Correcting would be a fight, and fights were what George used as excuses to tighten chains.

George leaned back, satisfied with his own narrative. “That’s normal. Practical.” His smile sharpened. “But you need a partner on your rank.”

Rank.

The word turned people into ladders. Max kept his face smooth regardless of his uncle’s words.

“Your singer friend,” George continued, voice still soft, “is charming. I’m sure he’s very good at what he does.”

Max nodded once, small and agreeable. The loyal nephew. The easy audience.

George’s smile didn’t falter. It cooled.

“But I don’t accept an orphan with nothing but a pretty voice near you,” George said, almost gently. “Not if you intend to become Duke of Claymore.”

Max’s pulse stayed steady because he forced it to.

George’s gaze held his, warm and lethal. “Take care of him,” he said. “Properly. Or I will.”

“Uncle,” Max said, still smiling and still mild, “what do you mean by that? Duke of Claymore, but what about Elliot?”

He kept the tone curious, almost light, like a nephew asking for clarification on inheritance logistics.

Inside, he did what he always did for George: redirected the blade.

If George wanted to speak about Adam, Max would give him a shinier object. A bigger ambition. A louder prize. Something that made George’s eyes turn greedy and distracted.

George’s smile deepened. He loved when Max asked the right questions.

“Ah,” George murmured, pleased. “There you are.”

Max inclined his head slightly, attentive. The loyal nephew. The chosen one.

George lifted his teacup again, letting the porcelain click softly against its saucer before he spoke, as if the sound itself were part of the ceremony.

“Elliot will be handled,” George said calmly.

Max kept his expression neutral. “Handled.”

George’s eyes gleamed. “He will receive a title.”

Max waited.

George continued, his voice almost indulgent. “A countship. Old. Inherited. Very respectable on paper.” He smiled like a man offering a consolation prize to a child. “Ceremonial, mostly.”

Max’s smile stayed in place.

Rage tightened behind his ribs anyway, sharp and hot – not for Elliot, not truly. Elliot was arrogant, cruel, and reckless. But this was the Claymore way: turn blood into paperwork, people into disposable parts, and then call it quits.

George waved a hand as if dismissing the entire concept of his own son. “He’ll have something to preen over. Something to keep him quiet. He’s always liked appearances more than responsibility.”

Max’s eyes stayed on his uncle. “And you believe he’ll accept that.”

George’s smile turned amused. “He doesn’t need to accept it. He needs to survive it.”

Max let the line pass without reaction. He knew what it meant. Elliot could throw tantrums until his throat bled; George would still move him like a pawn and call it mercy.

George’s gaze sharpened with satisfaction. “You, however, will have the duchy. The company. The seat. The power.” His voice gentled again, as if he were giving Max a gift instead of a chain. “You will be Duke of Claymore.”

Max’s heart remained steady through sheer discipline. “If I intend,” he said softly, “to become Duke.”

George’s smile widened. “When you become Duke.”

Max gave him another small, agreeable nod.

George leaned forward again, lowering his voice, as this was the part that mattered most.

“And you will not walk into that position alone,” George said. “A Duke needs a partner.”

Max’s fingers stayed loose on his knee. His charm stayed in place like armor.

“A partner,” Max repeated mildly.

“A dominant omega,” George clarified, as if Max might have misunderstood the obvious. “One with a family name that strengthens us, not a civilian name that weakens you.” His eyes glittered. “A man who can stand beside you without embarrassing the Claymore line.”

Max’s jaw ticked once. He smoothed it away.

George smiled softly, almost kindly. “Gabriel von Jaunez.”

The name landed in Max’s mind like a heavy object dropped into still water.

Not because Gabriel meant anything to him personally – Max had never met the man aside from the remote projects they had – but because the way George said the name made it clear Gabriel wasn’t being considered as a person.

He was being acquired.

Max kept his expression attentive. “The von Jaunez family,” he said, the words carefully neutral.

“Old money,” George agreed, pleased. “Old influence. Their name still opens doors. And Gabriel, in particular, is useful.” George’s tone warmed with the satisfaction of someone reviewing assets. “He’s already within our reach. Claymore Ether Energy. Documentation, safety regulations, and site oversight. The boy touches everything.”

Max’s smile stayed mild. “So you’ve been watching him.”

George’s eyes narrowed slightly, amused. “I watch everyone worth watching.”

Max exhaled a quiet, polite breath that could be mistaken for agreement.

“And,” George continued, “he is dominant.” He said the word like it was a quality stamp.

Max nodded once.

George leaned back, satisfied with the picture he’d painted. “It will stabilize your image. It will stabilize the company. It will stabilize the family.” His eyes sharpened. “And it will remove the… nonsense.”

Max’s throat tightened.

“Nonsense,” Max echoed lightly.

George smiled. “Your singer.”

Max’s smile did not change.

Inside, the rage returned because George spoke about Adam like he was a smear on polished silver.

Max’s charm held anyway. Years of practice did what they were trained to do: keep the face smooth while the mind sharpened.

“I see,” Max said softly, as if he were considering the offer rather than measuring its price.

George’s gaze flicked over him, searching for cracks. “You understand what I’m offering.”

“I understand what you want,” Max replied.

George’s smile widened. “And what I will do if you refuse.”

There it was again, stated without being stated.

Max’s fingers stayed relaxed on his knee. He kept his posture open. He let his gaze remain calm.

“Uncle,” Max said gently, “you don’t need to threaten me.”

George’s smile softened into something almost fond. “I’m not threatening you. I’m protecting you from making sentimental mistakes.”

Max’s lips curved faintly. “Sentiment.”

George nodded. “Sentiment is how powerful men lose power.” He lifted his teacup again casually. “And you are meant to gain it.”

Max let the silence stretch just long enough to feel like consideration.

Then he inclined his head, giving George what he wanted, because this was not the moment for defiance. This was the moment for survival.

“If it secures the family,” Max said evenly, “then I’ll do my duty.”

George’s eyes gleamed, satisfied, like he’d just tightened a collar and watched it click into place.

“Good boy,” George murmured.

Max smiled, polite and perfect, as if the words didn’t make him want to set the manor on fire.

He swallowed the rage.

He swallowed the disgust.

And while George drank his tea like a man who believed he had won, Max was already thinking only one thing.

Adam could not remain bound to him.

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