The dining room was set like a funeral feast: enormous table, candelabra at the center, enough food to feed a pack of wolves. Doc ushered us in, then poured wine into heavy crystal goblets. The men took their places—Bronc at the head, Juliet to his right, then Arsenal, Big Papa beside him. Menace was to Bronc’s left, then me, Lucia, Wrecker, and Doc. Lucia was a nice block against all the testosterone that was flowing. Rafe took his place at the other head.
At first, the talk was all business. Arsenal mapped out the plan for tomorrow—wake at 0500, gym, then breakfast, more strategizing with Rafe and his team, then transport to the arena. Menace would fight Dominic at dusk, alone in the ring except for the Council witnesses and the cameras. There were big screens that flanked the arena, so everyone who watched got a bird’s-eye view of the carnage. If, Goddess forbid, he died, the rest of us were to run, not look back, and never speak of this day again.
“Don’t die,” Arsenal said, voice flat. “I don’t want to have to lie to your old lady.”
Menace grunted. “I’ll do my best.”
I didn’t say it aloud, but I told myself,if he dies, I die too. There was no life without my fated.
The men ate, piling their plates high with steak and bread and potatoes. The food was good, but none of them seemed to care. I picked at my meal, appetite gone, and watched the way the room seemed to close in around us, the dark outside pressing against the windows like a second skin.
After a few minutes, the tone shifted. The stories started; some funny, some ugly, all true. Wrecker told about the time Menace talked a suicide bomber out of detonating, onlyto knock him cold and handcuff him to a light pole. Doc recounted the time Menace took a bullet to the thigh and kept running, dragging three men to safety while cursing the whole way. Even Big Papa chimed in, voice deep and sonorous, telling how Menace once held a dying teammate’s hand for five hours, not leaving until the body was cold.
The men laughed, sometimes too loud, sometimes not loud enough. They talked about pain like it was a badge, about fear like it was a joke they’d all heard, but no one quite remembered the punchline.
I watched Menace, saw how the stories softened him, how the lines in his face smoothed, how the anger faded to something almost gentle. For a while, I let myself believe this was a normal night, that tomorrow would be another day, that men like him got to live forever.
When the meal ended, the men drifted into the living room, voices dropping to low, urgent murmurs. Juliet disappeared with Bronc. Lucia vanished, probably to hunt something in the woods. I lingered, not wanting to leave, not wanting the night to end.
Menace caught my eye from across the room. He moved to me, silent as a ghost, and took my hand.
“Come with me,” he said, and I did.
He led me to a side hallway, away from the others, down a corridor lined with portraits of people who looked like they’d never known happiness. At the end was a sunroom, the glass dark and streaked with rain. He closed the door behind us, then turned and put his arms around me.
“I’m not afraid,” he said. “Not anymore.”
I buried my face in his shoulder, breathed in the scent of him—cedar wood, smoke, and home. “Then neither am I.”
He kissed the top of my head.
I looked up at him and saw the way his eyes glowed gold in the dim light. “I wish I were half as strong as you.”
He laughed. “You’re stronger. You’ve survivedworse.”
We stood there for a while, not moving, just feeling the world tilt and shift around us. For the first time, I thought maybe we could win. Maybe the universe wasn’t always rigged in favor of the monsters.
When we went back to the others, the men were already heading up to their rooms. When they saw us, Big Papa stopped and grabbed our hands. I was moved beyond measure when he quietly prayed for Menace.
Outside, the wind picked up, rattling the old glass in its frame.
If tonight was our last night together, we were going to go out with all the passion we could muster. When we got to our room, I grabbed his face in my hands and kissed him like there was no tomorrow.
Chapter 25
Menace
Savannah hit me like a bullet at the threshold, mouth already on mine, legs tangled around my waist. The door was barely shut, and she was clawing at my shirt, tearing open buttons with a desperation that almost hurt to see. Her hands went up into my hair, fists clamped tight. She bit my lip hard enough to draw blood, and when I flinched, she growled—low, raw, nothing human in it.
The air between us went brittle. My own hands found her hips, the slip of her ass beneath the thin fabric of her dress, and I hoisted her higher, pinning her against the wall with my body. She made a sound—half sob, half snarl—and locked her ankles at the small of my back, grinding against the hard line of my cock through my jeans. I tasted salt and iron, sweat and her. The world outside the door was gone, burned to nothing.
I carried her into the bathroom, flipping on the light with an elbow. The place was all glass and cold tile, designed for men who drank their whiskey neat and never shed a tear. I sat her on the counter, knocking aside a glass and a little bottle of mouthwash. The shiver that went through her was pure animal lust and hunger. She yanked at my belt, fingers clumsy, cursing under her breath.
“God, I need you,” she said. Not a plea. A fact.
I tore the dress from her in a single motion, fabric splitting at the seam and falling away. She was naked underneath, except fora sliver of lace I ripped off with my teeth. She giggled, just a flash, then went still when I ran my palms up her thighs. Her skin was so pale it reflected the light, every goosebump and scar lit up for me. I kissed her knee, her inner thigh, her hipbone, and she closed her eyes, chin tilted up like she was praying for mercy.
“Shower,” I said, and she nodded, sliding off the counter with a grace that was almost obscene.
