My Daughter Was His Blood Pack
Language: en
In the cramped confines of my studio apartment, I was rubbing my stiff knuckles, trying to soothe the chronic ache of a long day’s work, when my phone buzzed. A high-priority notification from the concierge app flashed across the screen. A five-hundred-dollar booking. On-site massage therapy at a luxury estate in the Heights. I didn’t hesitate; I swiped to accept it before anyone else could. When I arrived at the address—a sprawling glass-and-steel mansion tucked behind a wall of manicured hedges—the door was opened by a girl who looked like she’d stepped off a yacht. Her skin was…