I saw the pulse jump in his jaw. “He was senile and you know it. This should never have been yours. And you’re proving it.”
My vision tunneled for a second, the air between us vibrating like a bridge about to snap. I made myself breathe, just once.
“You think you can walk in here and make demands?” I said, stepping forward. “This is MY home. You lost the right to command me the second you kicked me out. Remember?”
He matched my step, nose to nose, not quite as tall as me but still radiating that I-am-the-room energy that had kept me in line for two decades. “You are a Steele, whether you like it or not. And you’re coming back to Texas. There’s an arranged meeting next week, and you will attend it. You’ll represent the family like a man, not a—” He stopped himself again, lips curling at the edge.
That was it. The last thread snapped.
“You talk about family like it’s a uniform you can’t take off,” I spat. “But you never cared about blood until you had a reputation to protect. This isn’t about legacy, it’s about control. You hate that I got away from you.”
He gave a little half-smile, practiced and lethal. “We all make sacrifices. Maybe you’ll understand when you’re older, or when that omega leaves you for a better offer.”
I felt the temperature in the room spike ten degrees. “Say one more word about him,” I said, my voice so flat I barely recognized it. “Just one.”
His gaze flicked to my fists, then back up. “What? You’ll punch your own father, right here? Go ahead. Prove me right.”
“Get out,” I said, every syllable a warning shot. “Get the hell out before I decide you’re a threat to my property.”
He held his ground, eyes glittering. “I’m not leaving until you agree to return with us. You’re still the legal guardian of the estate. If you don’t come back, there are consequences.”
“Try me,” I said.
Barrett hovered, caught in the crossfire, his voice small. “Dad, maybe we should—”
Harrison cut him off with a palm. “No. We finish this.”
At the edge of my vision, movement. Macon and Burke, flanking the entry, eyes hard and bodies tense—ready to pull me off Harrison, or maybe just savoring the show.
I raised my voice. “Macon. If my father tries to set foot upstairs or anywhere near my omega, you show him the door. Or the window. Whichever’s faster.”
Harrison sneered. “Hiding behind your goons now? Jesus, what happened to you?”
“They’re not goons,” I said. “They’re my friends. Which is more than I ever got from you.”
For a long moment, neither of us spoke. We just stood, two stone statues locked in a thousand-year grudge.
It was Barrett who finally broke. “Can we please, just—let’s talk it out, over dinner? Jojo’s been cooking all day. Maybe we could—”
Harrison glared at him. “We’re not staying. Pack your things, Rawley. You’re coming home if I have to drag you by the neck.”
I smiled, cold as the wind off the ridge. “You can try.”
He stepped forward, close enough that I could smell the Dallas cologne. “You were always a disappointment,” he hissed.
“And you were always a coward,” I replied.
That was the moment, right there, when the house learned a new kind of violence. The kind that didn’t need fists, only words, because they cut deeper and took longer to heal.
I could feel Jojo’s eyes on me from the kitchen, Macon’s hand flexing just out of view, Burke’s weight shifting like he was getting ready to drop the hammer.
And for the first time, I realized I wasn’t alone.
This was my home. Mine. And I’d burn it to the ground before I let anyone take it from me.
Outside, the night deepened into a black so thick it pressed against the glass. The kind of darkness that, back in SEAL training, meant you were either about to ambush or be ambushed.
Inside, the air changed. The hate and adrenaline that’d just hung in the living room started to melt under the weight of a new, heavier aroma: slow-cooked beef and something sweet, onions and—fuck, was that thyme? Even the rage in my bones couldn’t ignore it.
