He offered before I even packed for Blackthorne, saying I could spend the year living with him in California, helping him with his private coaching business. He mentioned getting me closer to the circuits he still dominates, even in retirement. He called it an “opportunity,” the same word he uses when he wants something to sound selfless, but it isn’t.
Last year, I worked with my mother. The modelling agency, the brand shoots, the endless events where I had to smile for cameras that felt more invasive than affectionate.
Every photo was perfect, and every version of me was someone I didn’t recognize. My mother called it art; I called it exhausting.
This year, I wanted something different. Somewhere that I didn’t always have to perform. I didn’t realize the Sin Bin would be its own kind of stage.
It’s not that they’re bad guys. They’re just… larger than life. Loud—unapologetically so—and highly competitive. They live and breathe the confidence I no longer have. Every day feels as though I’m in a play I’m understudying for, never sure which parts I’m supposed to act out. So much for not having to perform, I guess.
Killian is the house’s reluctant parental figure; the one who cooks, schedules the cleaners, and threatens to kick everyone out when they act like feral children. Roman’s quiet and terrifyingly observant. Apparently, he used to get into a lot of fights, but I honestly can't see it.
Luca’s a walking spotlight—always surrounded by people but preferring the company of his boyfriend, Sage. Thorn and Ryan are twin chaos incarnate—both addicted to pushing buttons just to see what happens.
Julian and Eli are worse together than apart, and they’re always in each other’s business. Adrian and Liam stay out of most of it, but when they speak, people listen.
And then there’s Damien. He’s hardly ever home, but I hear the way they talk about him around the table when he’s not here… and it fucking hurts to know what everyone suspects he's up to when he's not home.
I drag a hand through my hair, pushing the blue strands out of my face. I should probably touch up the color again, even though I know it’ll be useless now that I’m in a pool most of the time.
A bass-heavy beat pulses through the house, vibrating the windows, and I sigh, remembering there’s a party happening tonight. Killian’s rule, apparently—a big one once a month. A Sin Bin tradition that’s supposed to “keep morale high,” which I’m pretty sure is code for an excuse to get drunk and make bad decisions.
As one does.
I tried to get out of it again, but Ryan wasn’t having it. “Mandatory attendance, Adams. You live here now, that means you show up.”
I groaned and threw one of my pillows at him. “You can’t make me.”
“I can and I will,” he’d said, catching the pillow easily. “If you don’t come down, I’ll tell Killian you threw out his lasagna last week.”
That wasn’t just a threat; that was a goddamn death sentence.
So now, here I am, standing in front of my mirror, hating every second of it. I tug at the sleeves of my black shirt and adjust the belt on my jeans, even though I don’t need a belt.
“You’re fine. You look fine. You look approachable and normal. No one will think you’re weird,” I murmur to myself, but the reflection staring back at me looks too much like someone trying to disappear.
There’s a knock on my door. “Don’t even think about pretending you’re asleep,” Ryan calls from the other side.
I groan. “You could at least let me suffer in peace.”
He pushes the door open and steps in without waiting for permission. He’s dressed up, for once—dark jeans, gray T-shirt tight over his chest, curls hanging loose over his shoulders. “You ready?”
“No,” I mutter.
He grins. “Good. Let’s go.”
“I hate you.”
“Love you too, Adams,” he says, slinging an arm over my shoulders and steering me toward the door. “Now, come on. You do not want to miss the kind of chaos happening downstairs.”
“I really do,” I grumble, and he laughs, the sound echoing off the walls as we make our way downstairs. The music gets louder with every step, and by the time we hit the landing, I can feel the bass in my ribs.
The living room has been transformed—lights dimmed, red solo cups everywhere, people already dancing or sprawled out on couches. But even with so many people packed in the place, my eyes immediately zero in on Damien.
He’s standing near the back of the room, beer in hand, talking to Thorn and Eli. He’s wearing a dark blue shirt, black cargo shorts, and a backward cap. He smiles at something Thorn says, and I swear my heart forgets to beat for a full second.
It’s still the same pull. The gravity hasn’t faded, not even after all this time. It’s the same ache, the same quiet hunger I’ve been trying to kill since he left.
Ryan squeezes my shoulder and leans in close to my ear. “You okay?”
