“Your mother is wrong about a lot of things. She’s wrong about this too. You’re going to get something different. I don’tknow what it looks like yet, but I know you. You don’t fit into standard boxes. You redraw them.”
Of course he would say something that caused tears to come. I blinked fast to hold them back.
Emeralds and tears didn’t mix; my mother would say it ruined the aesthetic.
“Okay, enough heavy Archibald. We’re going to be late for my celebration dinner.”
He offered his arm again.
I took it.
29
Vince
Atticus DuPont needed to disappear. By my hand, preferably.
Nothing dramatic or traceable. Just one less well-bred shark circling my girl. Every time his name landed next to hers, my brain started running numbers on what it would cost to take him off the board and how quickly I could make his dynasty sign the condolence flowers.
On the plane. Can’t send your picture, Daddy. Tiny bathroom, three uncles, Atticus and security. I’ll make it up to you tonight. You can take the dress off yourself.
No photo attached. Just that.
Two weeks of her being a good little sub, sending me obedient morning shots in the bras and panties I chose. My phone lighting up at 6:03 a.m. withDaddy-approvedlace.
And the one morning my cock woke up before my alarm, already hard and waiting for my girl? A line about businessman in a suit and her uncles on a jet instead.
I’d stared at that message way too long. Imagined the scene. Her tucked in a seat with Atticus-fucking-DePout next to her, pretending he wasn’t looking down her dress.
The possessive part of my brain, which was most of it, had not enjoyed that exercise.
Veil had made it worse, which was a fucking talent. Two hours later she’d gone live from the Harrington launch in Harlan. Streaming from some gilded balcony, camera cutting between her and Atticus as they smiled.
Meanwhile, the man she belonged to was in Villain, pacing a trench in his own floor waiting for the elevator.
I checked the time.
Seven minutes late.
The penthouse elevator lights crawled from 44 to 45, then stayed there like it knew I was watching and wanted to test me.
Luca would have a lecture about mindfulness for this. Rome would tell me to jerk off and take the edge off. Bastion would suggest violence as a coping mechanism.
I dragged a hand over my jaw and turned my back on the doors, staring out at the city instead. Villain sprawled under the glass, neon veins and dark arteries. My city. My territory. The only place she was allowed to be without my pulse jumping into my throat.
I forced my shoulders to unlock, rolled them back. Deep breath in. Out.
Don’t scare her, Crow.
The elevator pinged.
Every thought went white.
The doors slid open and the world narrowed down to a soft, light pink.
Madeline stood in the centre of the car, one hand on the rail, suitcase by her ankle. Her dress skimmed mid-thigh, some deceptively simple thing that looked casual until you clocked the tailoring and gold jewellery
I crossed the space in two strides. I caught her waist, hauled her up, and her legs wrapped around my hips like we’d practiced it.
