She broke the kiss, held my gaze, and said, “I’m done hiding.”
Then she turned to face the room, hand still wrapped in mine, daring anyone to say a thing.
The floodgates opened. Cameras flashed. People jostled for position, half to get a better look, half to get out of her way. She stood her ground, and I stood with her, the two of us a brick wall in a hurricane of high society.
On the far side of the hall, Bennet Shore caught my eye. He raised his glass, a rare grin pulling at the corners of his mouth. “About fucking time,” he mouthed.
Near the bar, Lila Vargas lifted her bourbon, nodded once, and went right back to working her phone.
Carrie’s breath was hot in my ear. “Let’s get out of here before they start asking for wedding invitations.”
I grinned, and for the first time in years, it felt real.
We walked through the hall together, people parting, and made our way to the doors. She led me between the rows—barrels stacked six-high, some charred, some oozing slow caramel tears, all stamped with the Stillwater name and a year that outlived most men. At the center of the maze, someone had dragged in an old leather couch, the kind that belonged in a judge’s office or a confessional booth. She sat, patted the spot next to her, and I folded in.
She looked at me, and in the lantern’s glow I saw the color that only came out when she was herself—raw, exposed, maybe a little afraid.
“Do you believe in ghosts?” she said, voice low.
“Only the ones I make myself,” I said. “You?”
She traced the ring of condensation on the armrest, then let her hand slip to my knee. “This place is haunted, you know. My father used to say every barrel remembers the worst day of your life, so you’d better give it something worth keeping.”
I put my arm around her. She shivered, but leaned in.
“I want to try something,” she said.
I nodded.
She stood, walked to the nearest barrel, and ran her fingers along the ridge where someone—her great-great-whatever—had burned the family crest. She looked back at me, then unzipped the side of her dress and let it fall to her ankles.
It wasn’t a show. It was a shedding. She stood bare under the yellow light, the mark on her neck now a deep, permanent brand, the old blood and the new colliding in the lines of her body. She leaned back, slow, hands on the ancient wood, back arched so I could see every inch.
I followed, stripped to nothing, and pressed my skin to hers. The barrels creaked, the whole rickhouse seemed to breathe with us. I kissed the mark on her neck, and she whimpered, the sound echoing into the dark.
Her hands found my cock, stroked it to hardness, then guided me inside her, slow and deliberate, as if it was a ritual that had to be done right or not at all. I held her hips, pulling her back into me, letting the rhythm match the slow drip of whiskey from the cask. Her cunt was tight, slick, hotter than anything I’d ever known.
She leaned into the barrel, breasts pressed to the cool oak, hair cascading down her back. I ran my tongue up her spine, biting the space between her shoulder blades, marking her again, and again. She moaned, not shy anymore, letting the sound fill the hollow space.
I reached around, pinched her nipple, then slid my fingers down to her clit. She bucked against my hand, grinding herself into the staves, desperate for more. I gave it to her—harder now, cock swelling at the base, the old hunger returning. She felt it too.
She looked over her shoulder, eyes wild. “Is it happening?”
I didn’t have to ask what she meant. I could feel the bond growing, knitting us together with every thrust, every gasp, every flood of heat.
I fucked her like we were the last two people in Kentucky. She took all of it, every inch, every pulse, every ounce of want I had to give. When I felt the knot build, I warned her, but she just grabbed my hand and held on.
“Do it,” she said, voice shaking. “I want it.”
I came, hard, knotting inside her, and she cried out, the sound half-pain, half-ecstasy. The pressure, the stretch, the feeling of being locked together—she took it all, and when I finally softened, she turned and collapsed into my arms, breathing fast, heart pounding against my chest.
She kissed me, slow and deep. “I’m changing, Shivs. I can feel it in my DNA, in my blood, and in my bones. I’m becoming like you.”
“Then it’s time for the final step,” I said and walked her out of the room.
Shivs and Carrie
The first alarm was subtle, an old-school vibration in my bones—low frequency, the kind you only feel if you’re part animal or owned by a woman who didn’t fuck around with security. I was standing by the west gate, hands on the rails, eyes scanning the dusk, when it started. At first, I thought it was just another test of the new motion sensors Carrie had put in last week, but then the perimeter lights flicked from white to pulsing red, and I got a face full of it on the wind.
