I watched his eyes. Dark. Unreadable. But not empty.
Never empty.
His thumbs brushed under my cheekbones.
Slow.
Measured.
And then?—
He spoke.
Quiet.
Final.
“You were always mine.”
I swallowed. The words hit harder than his cock. Harder than his silence.
“Before Royal flirted.” He tilted my chin higher. “Before Loyal softened.” His voice dropped lower. “Before Barron touched.”
The air went still. My pulse thundered in my throat.
His fingers tightened, just slightly. Just enough.
“You were mine first.”
I didn't nod. Didn't answer. I didn't need to.
He leaned in. Nose brushing mine. Breath hot. “And if they ever forget it…” His lips brushed my ear. “I’ll remind them.”
He stood. Fastened his belt. Ran a hand through his hair. Then looked down at me one last time. His mouth didn’t move.
But his eyes said everything:
You don’t kneel for them the way you kneel for me.
And he was right. I never would.
Worship has a memory.
And Wolfe wrote his name on mine first.
29
BARRON
It wasthe kind of office that hadn’t changed since the 1980s. Fluorescent lights buzzed overhead. Carpet the color of dried blood. One desk. One man. No secretary. No computer. Just a file cabinet with rusted handles and a coffee machine that hadn’t been cleaned in a decade.
I didn't knock. I opened the door and stepped inside like I still belonged there.
Once, a long time ago, I had.
He didn’t look up. Didn’t need to. The kind of men who came to him didn’t wait for permission. They walked in like ghosts. Like debts come to collect.
He was older now. More than I remembered. Thick hands, liver spots, that scar across his jaw still cutting clean through skin like it didn’t believe in healing. He looked like a man who still knew the exact weight of a corpse under his boots.
