Apocalypse Rebirth: Making Billions With My Fortune-Telling Skill

A vein pulsed visibly at Nat’s temple. The raw, predatory aura radiating off the Golden Dragon filled the suite like a thick fog. In two heavy strides, Nat bridged the distance between the doorway and the sofa, looming over Oliver like an impending natural disaster.

”Everything,” Nat growled, his voice dropping into a low, terrifying rasp as he reached down, his large hand clamping around Oliver’s wrist with enough force to crush bone. ”Because I’m the one who put those marks there, and I don’t recall giving a white-coated parasite permission to touch what’s mine.”

Oliver’s expression didn’t shatter, but his jaw tightened at the sudden, vicious pressure on his wrist. He didn’t pull away; instead, he slowly met Nat’s burning eyes with a sharp, clinical disdain.

”You mark her like a dog pissing on a fence because you lack the subtlety to keep her,” Oliver drawled softly, his voice laced with venomous composure. ”Careless strength is just violence, Collins. It takes a doctor to know how to handle something delicate without ruining it.”

”Why don’t you test that theory on me, Doc?” Nat sneered, his free hand balling into a fist and curling tight as he yanked Oliver’s wrist upward, forcing the doctor to stand.

”Gentlemen.”

Samuel’s voice cut through the rising storm with the swift, icy precision of a blade. And barbarian... he added internally. Then, he stepped seamlessly into the space between them, his suit unruffled, his hands raised just enough to signal a hard boundary.

His glasses glinted under the chandelier lights, concealing the dark, murderous promise in his own eyes.

”Master Collins. Master Oliver,” Samuel said, his tone entirely devoid of warmth. ”Miss April is here to conduct official judging duties for the competition. If the two of you intend to turn her private suite into a brawl, I will personally have venue security—and Master Reed’s posted guards—escort you both out to the alleyway. And I could also get you a judge to preside your fight, how bout it?”

April didn’t even look up from her clipboard as she turned a page, her calm voice settling over the room like cold water over hot steel.

”If either of you causes a scene that ruins my quiet morning,” April said evenly, ”I’ll ensure neither of you sets foot in this arena for the rest of the three days, and Nat, I mean it this time. Oliver, take your hands off my leg. Nat, let go of his wrist and sit down before I lose my patience.”

The tension in the air remained as sharp as blade, a volatile standoff between brute force, cold intellect, and absolute authority.

Oliver was the first to yield, letting out a faint, amused hum as he slowly withdrew his hand, deliberately smoothing down the cuff of his lab coat. ”As the lady wishes,” he murmured, casting one last lingering, possessive glance at April’s exposed ankle before stepping back.

Nat released Oliver’s wrist with a sharp shove, his eyes still fixed on the doctor like a predator waiting for its prey to slip up. He let out a low, irritated huff, rolling his broad shoulders as he dropped heavily onto the armchair directly opposite April, unbuttoning his dark jacket with aggressive grace.

”You’re late anyway, Collins,” Oliver added smoothly, taking a seat on the adjacent single sofa and crossing his long legs. ”The first dish is being prepared as we speak.”

”Keep talking, Doc,” Nat warned, leaning back and resting his boots directly on the edge of the coffee table, his gaze locking onto April with heavy, unyielding focus. ”And I’ll make sure your next patient is yourself.”

April finally raised her eyes from her notes, sweeping a cool, analytical glance over the three formidable men occupying her room.

She could already see even more chaos in the coming hours. There was no way Alexander and Xavier would let it slide the moment they realized Nat had slipped out of the house and went after her ahead of them—and with Oliver already comfortably entrenched, the room was turning into a powder keg.

Nat kept his gaze pinned on April, a dark, simmering heat rising behind his eyes.

She looked so damn composed, so analytical, sitting there in her high-collared dress as if she hadn’t been completely unraveled just hours ago. Last night, she hadn’t been this distant, unbothered character. She had been curious, inexperienced... willing to learn.

She had been breathless, flushed, moaning his name into the dark while he held her tight, completely broken apart under his touch. She had been his in every sense of the word, yielding to the raw, possessive storm between them. God, her warmth, her insides—she felt even better than he had ever imagined in his wild dreams. Even with the crazy reality of a foursome, she had been entirely consumed by them.

And yet here she was now, acting like he was nothing more than a giant prick on her side.

The contrast was enough to drive a man insane. Nat’s jaw clenched tight, a low, gravelly chuckle escaping his chest as he leaned forward, resting his elbows on his knees to bring himself closer to her.

”You’re real cold in the daylight, sweetheart,” Nat drawled, his raspy voice dropping into that quiet, dangerous register meant only for her. ”Hard to believe you’re the same woman from last night.”

Oliver’s eyes flicked over behind his glasses, a sharp, icy interest settling onto his face at the heavy implication in Nat’s tone, while Samuel quietly adjusted the cuff of his suit sleeve, his dark eyes narrowing behind his lenses.

April didn’t lose her composure for even a second. She calmly turned a page on her clipboard, her voice smooth and unbothered. ”That was last night, Nat. Right now, I am very interested in the dishes. So if you can’t behave like a civilized guest, I can always have Samuel find you your usual seat in your display case.”

”My display case?” Nat echoed, a dark, dangerous thread of amusement lacing his voice as his lips curved into a sharp grin. ”You make me sound like a museum artifact, sweetheart.”

”If the shoe fits,” April replied without glancing up from her notes, her pen making a crisp, deliberate mark against the paper. ”Though I doubt any museum would appreciate the noise level.”