“We were so proud of you in Guys and Dolls,” Carol says, her face lighting up. “You were a natural, Darla. You absolutely stole the show.”
“She was a menace,” East chimes in, a proud grin on his face. “Drove the director crazy. Had her own ideas about the choreography.”
“Your father never came, did he?” Grant asks, his tone casual, but his eyes are sharp, missing nothing.
I shake my head, a familiar ache in my chest. “He didn’t approve.” I take a breath, the warmth of this room making me brave. “I was offered a spot at Juilliard for their theater program. He… he forbade me from going.”
The happy chatter at the table dies. Carol’s hand covers mine across the table, her expression full of a soft, aching sympathy.
“That man is a fool.” Grant’s low growl breaks the silence. “He wouldn’t know talent if it bit him on his perfectly polished ass.” The sharp, witty comment is so unexpected I let out a real, watery laugh.
“You know,” Carol says, her eyes thoughtful, “I’ve been heading a committee to try to restore the old Regent theater downtown. It’s a beautiful historic place, just rotting away. But we’ve been struggling to find a vision for it. Someone with a real passion for what it could be.” She squeezes my hand. “I’d love for you to take a look. Maybe… help us.”
The offer hangs in the air. It’s not a pity project. It’s a purpose. A future. Something outside of the club, outside of my father’s war. Something that is just for me. Tears prick at the backs of my eyes. “I’d love that,” I whisper, my voice thick.
Later that night, back at East’s house, I’m emotionally overwhelmed. I’m curled up on his couch, a wineglass in my hand, staring into the quiet darkness of his living room. He puts on an old record, the soft, bluesy music a gentle counterpoint to the storm of feeling in my chest.
He sits beside me, his arm resting on the back of the couch, his fingers gently playing with a strand of my hair. “You okay?”
I look at him, at his kind, worried eyes, at the man who has become my sanctuary, my partner, my home. I think of his family, of the warmth and love and acceptance they just handed me without question. And a truth so potent, so absolute, rises in me I can’t hold it back. It spills out, a quiet, vulnerable whisper.
“I love you.”
He goes completely still. The fingers in my hair stop moving. His eyes search mine, and I see a wave of raw, unguarded emotion crash over his face. He doesn’t hesitate. Not for a second.
He pulls me to him, his mouth finding mine in a kiss that is full of desperate, profound relief. It’s not a kiss of passion, but of recognition. Of a truth finally spoken. He pulls back, his forehead resting against mine, his voice a wrecked, rough whisper.
“I love you, too, Darla. God, I think I always have.”
The words break me. A sob, a sound of pure, unadulterated relief, escapes me. Then I’m kissing him again, pouring every ounce of the love I’ve kept locked away for seven years into him.
We move to the bedroom, and this time, there is no frantic rush, no desperation. This is different. This is a consummation.
East undresses me slowly, his hands and lips worshiping every inch of my skin. He kisses the faded bruise on my cheek and the tender spot on my ribs, his touch a healing balm. My pain, my history—all of it—he’s claiming, not just my body.
When he settles between my thighs, he looks down at me, his eyes dark with a reverence that makes my breath catch. “You’re so fucking beautiful,” he rasps, his voice thick with an emotion so raw it makes me tremble.
He enters me slowly, a deliberate, reverent glide that feels like coming home. I gasp, my back arching, my body accepting him, welcoming him. He’s so deep inside me, the feeling of him filling that empty, aching space is so profound it brings fresh tears to my eyes.
“Look at me, Darla,” he whispers, his voice strained.
My eyes flutter open, and I see it all there—the love, the fear, the fire. He moves within me in a slow, deep, soul-shattering rhythm that is less about pleasure and more about connection.It’s a silent vow, a physical manifestation of the love we’ve finally admitted.
“You’re mine,” he growls, his voice a low, possessive prayer against my skin. “Mine to protect. Mine to worship. All of you. Always.”
His words, his touch, the slow, deep thrusts of his cock inside my pussy—it’s too much. I shatter, and a wave of pure, white-hot pleasure crashes over me. It’s not a frantic orgasm, but a deep, emotional release that comes with a sob, my name a broken sound on his lips as my inner muscles pulse around him. He follows me over the edge with a groan, his own release a surrender. Giving over of a part of himself I didn’t know he had left to give.
Afterward, we lie tangled in the sheets, his head on my chest, my hand stroking his hair. The silence isn’t heavy anymore. It’s full. In the quiet dark of his room, I finally, truly, feel safe.
Chapter 41
East
Thewarroomhumswith a lethal energy. The phone sits in the middle of the long table like an unexploded bomb, its dark screen reflecting the single, harsh overhead light. We have the weapon. Now, we plan the demolition.
The whole team is here. Malachi, Nash, Knox, James, Kyle, and Rider. A council of war. The smell of stale coffee and the cold, metallic tang of focused rage permeates the air.
“The video is our nuke,” I murmur steadily, cutting through the silence. “But dropping a nuke is messy. We need to control the fallout. I want him ruined before he even knows what hit him.”
