I wait. Heart slamming. Cock throbbing inside the confines of my pants, still untouched. Terrified she’ll flinch. That she’ll see the scars, the lines carved by years of decisions I can’t take back. She’ll see that I’m old, lacking the youth of DK or Hunter. That I’m not even the man I’m supposed to be, maybe I’m worse, and she’ll pull away in disgust or fear.
She doesn’t.
Her lips curve up, eyes shining with tears that spill over. Happy tears. Her hands cup my cheeks, thumbs stroking the stubble, the faint scar along my cheek–the one I got the night I took the crown.
“You’re beautiful,” she whispers, voice cracking. “My husband is beautiful.”
Something breaks open in my chest. I surge up, capturing her mouth in a bruising kiss. She tastes so good, so fucking sweet, and I flip her to her back. This woman, she’s done everything we’ve demanded of her. I run my fingers over the scar on her chest, the Baron mark. This woman belongs to the Barons, to this house, but most of all she belongs to me, not just the Baron King, but to Timothy Maddox.
I shove my pants down my legs, kicking them to the end of the bed, then spread her legs wide. I don’t waste a breath before lining up to her pretty, warm pussy and thrusting in. We both groan, loud and raw.
She rises up, hips rolling in a way that makes her piercings tug with every thrust. Leaning to her, I lick her skin, her tits, sucking one nipple deep, tongue flicking the bar while my hand works the other–pinching, twisting, pulling until she’s crying out, nails digging into my shoulders. Our bodies clash, sweat-slick skin slapping, her cunt gripping me like a fist, wet and hot and perfect.
I’m close–too close–thrusting to meet her, ruthless now, chasing the edge. My hands clamp on her hips, holding her down so I can grind deep, pubic bone dragging against her clit.
“Fuck–” The words rip out of me. “Come on my cock.”
She shatters first–back bowing, a broken cry tearing from her throat as she pulses around me, milking me so hard my vision whites out. I follow right after, slamming once, twice, and spilling inside her with a guttural groan, hips jerking through every pulse until I’m empty, spent, still buried deep.
We collapse together. She drapes over my chest, both of us panting, slick and trembling. I wrap my arms around her–bare face against her hair, no mask between us–and hold her like she might vanish if I let go.
No secrets left on the table tonight. Just skin. Just truth. Just us.
She presses a soft kiss between my eyes, right where the mask used to sit.
“I see you,” she whispers.
The words land hard, not the words, but themeaning.Being seen was something I gave up on a long time ago, but hearing it from her? This wild child that is somehow bonded to me for life? I realize I want it—more than I ever fucking realized.
33
Damon
Campus is dead quiet.
Winter break means that the dorms are closed, leaving students with no choice but to head home. The grounds feel like some abandoned movie set. No students rushing between classes. No drunken frat boys heading home from a party or sporting event. Even security limits their patrols. Just silence, which is the perfect cover for what we’re about to do.
“Alright,” Hunter says, keeping his voice low. He, like the rest of us, is dressed in all black. A backpack is strapped over his shoulders, filled with enough supplies to manage a boy scout troop for a week. “While I was looking over the maps, I noticed this unmarked outbuilding.” He pushes aside a neatly manicured shrub near the east quad, revealing a rusting metal door. “This is close to where Arianette would have been walking after she left her dance class.”
Hunter reaches for the doorknob and it gives easily.
“That should be locked,” he notes, then rationalizes. “Could’ve been busted for a while and no one noticed.”
He slips inside and I follow, then Mateo, Slade, and Jace bring up the rear. We’d chosen the three others to be involved in this mission, but already I wonder if the twins’ size will be a problem. The space is tight, even more so when the heavy metal door clangs shut behind us with a sound that echoes down the concrete stairwell like a warning shot. Hunter flicks on his heavy-duty flashlight, guiding us down the stairs. When we reach the bottom, the beam slices straight through the dark, landing on long-abandoned metal utility boxes. “Looks like the university upgraded the systems about a decade ago and moved them over by the athletic building, and everyone forgot about them.”
Well, maybe not everyone.
I follow right on his heels, boots scraping on the gritty floor. He searches around for a bit, light skimming over the walls. Then he grunts and steps forward, fingers finding a latch, and another door opens. The air hits me immediately–cold, damp, thick with the smell of wet brick, mold and trapped earth.
“Jesus,” Slade breathes behind me. “Feels like we’re walking into one of the crypts.”
“If only,” Jace mutters. “The crypts we own. This is not our territory.”
Hunter has the old blueprints half-unrolled in one hand, flashlight tucked under his armpit while he scans them. “These tunnels stretch under the whole campus and half the city. We know everything to the North is rubble, completely inaccessible due to the explosions. The Barons' catacombs have always been maintained, but Strong Manor sits right on top of a major junction that connects the passageways to the university.”
Where we are now.
“The passage underneath has been sealed for decades,” he continues, “but it’s obvious someone’s been down here. Recently.”
