Go see Margolis about that laundering discrepancy. Wear the tie. —Dad
I wear it. Again. Still hate the feel of it. Like I’m being choked by something that isn’t quite mine yet. But I get it. He’s trying to see if I can carry fire without burning the house down.
It’s past midnight when I finally crawl into my room. The tie’s still choking me, knotted like guilt at my throat, and my hands won’t stop shaking with adrenaline, pressure, the weight of pretending I didn’t feel out of my depth every second of that meeting.
Aria’s there. Waiting.
She’s curled in my sheets like she was born in them. One leg bare, the other half-tangled in the blanket. Her tank top clings to the curve of her waist, riding up just enough to show smooth skin and the dip of her hipbone. Her hair spills across my pillow like ink in water.
“You do it?” she murmurs, voice thick with sleep.
“Yeah,” I rasp. I’m still standing in the doorway like a man who’s forgotten how to be touched.
She pulls her tank top over her head in one smooth motion, eyes never leaving mine, as if daring me to take the next step. Her hands find my chest, fingers pressing firmly, guiding me closer. A quiet command I can’t refuse.
I don’t hesitate. I strip the tie off like it’s a noose, shed the shirt and the weight with it, along with my pants and boxers, and sink into her like gravity’s been pulling me toward her all day.
There are no words at first. Just her body against mine, warm and grounding, her breath brushing my collarbone. The world narrows to the feel of her hand sliding up my spine, steady and slow, anchoring me.
“You don’t have to carry all of it tonight,” she whispers against my skin, her lips grazing my neck.
I kiss her. Not rough. Not desperate. Just deep and aching. Like a thank you, I don’t know how to say out loud.
She kisses me back harder, her hands tangling in my hair as she wraps her legs around me, but it’s her hands that set the rhythm. Slow, sure, owning this space between us. When she tilts her head back, breath hitching, it’s a promise that she’s not just here to receive. She’s here to claim. Her body rises to meet mine, and when I press into her, she parts for me like she’s been waiting.
I gently slide her panties down her long legs, trailing kisses up each one as I make my way back up Aria’s body. She shivers from my touch, moaning my name when I caress her breast with my tongue.
I pull my mouth away from her tempting skin and rise onto my knees between the apex of her thighs. She gasps when I enter her, her head falling back, lips parted. I bury my face in her throat, wrap my arms around her like I’m afraid I’ll fall apart if I don’t hold her tight enough.
We move slowly. Like we’ve got all the time in the world.
She doesn’t ask questions. Doesn’t flinch when the emotions leak through in my grip, in the way I kiss her, hold her, thrust into her like I’m trying to rewrite everything the day took out of me.
She lets me take. And gives everything.
When we finish, I stay buried in her, heart pounding against her chest. Her fingers trace the back of my neck, her legs still locked around mine.
She doesn’t say she loves me. She doesn’t have to because in that moment, skin to skin, breath to breath, she is mine.
And I am hers.
TEN
THE WEIGHT OF THE CROWN
STEEL
Day by day, Dad hands me another piece of the machine. Sometimes, it’s subtle. A contact passed over breakfast. A hard decision left sitting in my lap during Church. A whispered correction after I speak too quickly in front of a city official.
Other times, it’s brutal.
I catch him losing his breath going up the clubhouse stairs. See the way his hands tremble when he thinks no one’s watching. His voice used to crack through a room like a war drum. Now it scrapes low and tired, like gravel in a rusted pipe.
He used to move like a general. Strategic, forceful, focused. Now, there are days I find him on the clubhouse back porch staring out at nothing, hands trembling just enough to notice if you're close.
But even in those quiet moments, the brothers around him rally. Silent sentries holding space.
At Church, I see Honor and Rampage exchange glances when Dad barely calls order. They don’t prod, don’t pry, but they tighten their shoulders, as if silently saying,We got this.
