The braided leather whip lay coiled in a gentle spiral — jet black, with a wine-red fall and a handle capped in polished silver.
Silas reached out and lifted the handle like it was a treasure. “Kangaroo?”
Boone nodded. “Hand-dyed, hand braided. The pouch has a wrap cloth, oiling kit, and conditioning balm.”
Boone looked at the logo on the tag attached to it and both eyebrows lifted. “Made by a man who’s been doing it for thirty years.Fuck, Boone. This is a piece of art.”
“Custom handled to your grip length, which I got by measuring a handprint you left on the bondage table before our fucktoy had a chance to clean it off. Balanced for either speed or pain, depending on how you use your wrist.”
Silas tested the weight. Turned away from everyone and let it fly. “Once again, Merry Fucking Christmas to me. Thank you.”
And then Boone went behind the sofa again, this time coming out with something large and flat. Maybe a foot and a half by twofeet, but only a few inches thick. It was wrapped in gold paper with a moss-green ribbon.
He walked to her, propped it on the ottoman in front of her.
“Your turn.”
Willow blinked, surprised by the gentleness in his voice. She unwrapped it carefully and gasped.
The painting was soft and luminous. Her hawk form perched on the crook of her favorite tree limb, feathers backlit by dappled light, every detail rendered with breathtaking accuracy. It was framed in rustic wood, matted in pale cream.
And it was unmistakably her hawk, in her tree.
She looked at him, speechless.
“I asked our resident pack artist to show me all the pictures she’d taken of you. This one struck me the most, so I paid her to paint it.”
“It’sperfect,” she whispered, eyes stinging. “I love you, Sir. Thank you.”
He nodded, reached out, and squeezed her knee. “You’re our hawk. Wanted to honor that.”
Her throat thickened, and for once, she didn’t have words.
“Your turn next, sweetheart,” Kenny said softly.
She took a steadying breath, preparing to give her own gifts.
She stood, walked to the tree, picked up the first wrapped box, and carried it to Kenny. He cocked a brow but accepted it, setting it on his lap and peeling the paper away with slow curiosity.
He opened the lid and saw the massive, flat-black smartwatch that looked like it’d been designed for combat zones. Rugged. Heavy. Capable of surviving a war.
He looked at the box, looked at the watch. “This the one that sends texts, tracks vitals, works off-grid, and refuses to die?”
“Yeah. Military-grade,” she said, trying not to sound nervous. “If you break it, they replace it. Tracks every health statimaginable, has solar charging, GPS, barometric altimeter, two-way texting, and a bunch of other stuff, Sir. I figured it could keep up with you.”
Kenny stared at the watch for a beat longer, then looked up with a smile. “Thank you, little hawk. This is great.” He gave her a quick kiss. “This deserves agood girlalong with thethank you.”
Relief bloomed in her chest.
Then she handed him the green and red gift bag with green tissue. “There’s more.”
He pulled out the coffee mug first:KING OF THE CASTLE. He eyed it, then her, looked back to the mug, and turned it so the other men could see.
Silas laughed, and Boone said, “Oh, now you’ll be insufferable.”
Silas leaned in, mock serious. “You know this means we all have to start calling you Your Majesty now, right?”
Kenny pulled the heavy-duty travel mug out next and said, “Damned straight I am,” before he turned it to the other men so they could read:KING OF EVERYTHING.
