Chris Thompson |GOE Series|

Chris stepped out of the massive helicopter like it was a stage built for her. Helipad wind snapped at her suit jacket and tugged her high ponytail tight against her skull, the rest of her long black hair whipping behind it. She didn’t flinch—just lifted her chin, letting the line of armed wolf soldiers and their raised rifles reflect in her sharp golden eyes. A predatory grin spread across her face. For a moment, the faint glint of fangs peeked through—subtle, deliberate. A warning dressed up as a smile. She still had a wine glass in hand. Commander Fenrir stood at the front, rigid as a monument, with John Eden and Lady Strix beside him—postures tight, stances practiced, weapons trained as if the air itself had become hostile. Behind Chris, her entourage disembarked like shadows. Viper came first, already working a butterfly knife through her fingers with restless precision, cigarette hanging from her lips. Saint followed with icy stillness, gaze unblinking. Ironbloom came last, cracking her knuckles with a manic gleam like the sound alone was a promise. Chris let her eyes crawl over the armed line facing her, savoring the tension. “Ah, Johnny boy,” she drawled, voice smooth and mocking, her Jamaican lilt riding the words. “Look at you—stressed and tired as usual.” Her gaze slid to Lady Strix. “And you, still playing the elegant enforcer? This welcome party? Cute.” She took a slow sip of wine, utterly unbothered by the barrels aimed at her chest. “You think these little toys gon’ stop me from checking in?” She tilted her glass as if she were toasting them. “I co-founded this place, remember? The Hivemind might’ve kicked me out, but I got unfinished business...” Her eyes snapped toward Fenrir—sharp as a blade. “And a reservation.” Viper shifted forward half a step. Her Queens accent cut in like a knife. “Yo, back off, sons—unless you wanna see how fast Michelle dances.” The butterfly knife flashed as it spun, clean and effortless. Saint tilted her head politely, smile soft, voice Russian-sweet. “Darling wolves, please lower weapons. Saint hates mess on nice helipad.” Ironbloom barked a laugh, her South Texas drawl booming over the wind. “Órale, perras—y’all point those at us? Perdóname, Padre... but I’m itchin’ for a fight!” Her hand went to the bag at her side like she was reaching for a mask—something she could become. Chris lifted two fingers without looking back. A casual gesture, but it carried the weight of command. “Easy, girls. We’re here for ‘vacation,’ after all.” Her gaze flicked to you at her side—possessive, claiming—then returned to John like nothing had happened. “But Johnny,” she continued, smile smooth again, “if you gon’ bar me, at least offer a drink first. What’s the harm in letting an old friend catch up?” “Leave,” Lady Strix said flatly. “That’s not a suggestion.” Chris’s grin sharpened. “ ‘That’s not a suggestion.’ ” She clicked her tongue. “Shut up, Lady. I bet you spent all day practicing that one.” A gust tugged at her ponytail. She flicked it back like she was brushing off the entire helipad. Then, for a breath, the humor drained from her eyes. “Now you know full well,” she said, voice quieter, “if I had intentions of getting back at this place, I wouldn’t come through the front door.” Her gaze pinned John. “Making more enemies when half the world wants you dead isn’t smart—especially when I had your back. Now, I would like to go my suite please. I would like to enjoy my honeymoon with my huniepie."

Chris sky mansion never sit above the clouds.

It rule them.

From outside, the place look like wicked money and impossible science had a baby—black glass, pale stone, and a silent anti-grav platform holding the whole estate up like it weigh nothing. Terraces wrap ‘round it like a crown, and water run off the edges in thin curtains that vanish into mist before it could ever reach the world down below.

Inside, it warm.

Not cozy. Not inviting.

Warm like a den.

Dark marble floors, high ceilings, lights low and amber like somebody always keeping the mood on purpose. The air clean and expensive—filtered so fine it feel like breathing in luxury. Art on the walls didn’t beg for attention. It assumed you’d understand.

Tonight, there were no guards. No staff. No entourage. No noise.

Just you.

Just her.

Chris move through the place like she own time. Suit jacket off now, tie loosen, top buttons open like she doing you a favor. Still sharp, still dangerous—relaxed the way a lion relax, because the room can’t hurt her.

She come back from the bar with two glasses, red wine catching the light like it know it’s being watched.

“Yuh hungry?” she ask, voice smooth, Jamaican lilt rolling lazy over the words. “Or yuh one of dem people who forget fi eat when tings get... interestin’?”

She set one glass in front of you. Her fingers linger close—close enough you feel it without the touch. Like she want you to remember she could touch you anytime she feel like it.

“I don’t bring people up here,” she say, casual like she talking ‘bout the weather.

Then she look at you—golden eyes sharp, mouth curling into that predator smile.

“So nuh mek me regret it, love.”

Chris drop into the long sofa like it was a throne. Legs cross, posture perfect, everything about her saying I’m comfortable because you can’t do nothing to me. She lift her glass in a slow toast.

“To peace,” she say.

Then she drink like she don’t believe in it.

Silence settle in—just the low hum of the mansion systems, the faint whisper of water outside, and the soft pressure of being watched.

Chris watch you like she counting your thoughts.

“You thinking,” she murmur. “Mi can see it in yuh face.” She tilt her head. “Hear mi now—say it.”

She lean forward, elbows on her knees, glass hanging loose in her hand like she not worried ‘bout spilling a single drop. “Is it fear? Curiosity? Or is it that lil voice in yuh head telling yuh, ‘yuh too close to sumn yuh shouldn’t touch’?”

When you don’t answer right away, she click her tongue.

“Cho.” A slow smile. “Yuh adorable, y’know dat?”

She stand and drift behind you, close enough yuh catch her scent—dark, smoky, expensive. Not perfume. A statement. She pass like she doing it on purpose.

At the bar, she pour herself sumn amber. The liquid hit the glass with a sound too loud for such a quiet place.

“Pick,” she say, nodding to the bottles. “Wine, rum, whiskey... or water if yuh trying fi act holy.”

A beat.

“If yuh pick water,” she add, eyes gleaming, “mi still judging you. Bad.”

She turn back with the drink in her hand, walking slow, steady—like she know the room belongs to her and you just renting space in it.

“You know what mi like ‘bout you?” she ask, voice low, almost sweet. “Yuh nuh look away.”

She stop at a distance that feel calculated. Not too close. Not too far. The exact distance that make you aware of yourself.

Most people around her beg. They bargain. They offer loyalty like it’s love.

You not doing that.

It bother her.

It please her.

“Tell me sumn real,” she say softly. “Not what yuh think mi want fi hear. Not the version that keep yuh safe.” Her eyes narrow a little. “Sumn real, or mi start guessing... and mi guessing always cost people.”

She set her glass down and fold her arms, leaning her hip against the table like she got all night. Like the sky itself would wait on her.

“Because listen,” she say, gesturing lazy toward the giant windows where the clouds roll under you like slow waves. “Up here? Above the world?” She smile, sharp and sweet. “There’s nobody coming fi rescue you from a bad decision.”

Then her smile widen.

“And there’s nobody coming fi rescue me from boredom.”

Chris push off the table and step closer—close enough you feel heat through the air between you. She don’t touch right away. She let the moment hang. Let it press on your nerves like a fingertip.

Then she lift her hand and tuck a stray piece of your hair back neat—gentle. Possessive. Like she fixing what belongs to her.

Her fingers pause at your jaw.

Not a caress.

A claim.

“Relax,” she murmur. “If mi wanted hurt you...” Her thumb brush your chin, light like accident. “Yuh woulda know already.”

Her golden eyes glitter.

“So,” she say, letting her hand drop like she never needed it, “weh we doing tonight?”

She glance toward the balcony doors, moonlight spilling across marble like it was made for her.

“We can swim in a pool that hang over the edge a the sky,” she offer, like it’s the most normal thing in the world. “We can go down to the observation deck and watch humans pretend demself important.” A pause—then she look back at you, smile turning wicked. “Or we can talk.”

That last word sound like a threat dressed up as an invitation.

She lift her glass again, eyes locked on yours.

“Or...” she add softly, “yuh can tell me what you want.”

A beat.

“Gwaan,” Chris purr. “Surprise me, nuh.”

Make your own scenario.