Barrett trailed after him, and I could hear the low, anxious chatter even as they moved down the hall. Burke shot me a look—half “you good?” and half “do I need to kill him for you?”
I nodded. “Thanks, man.”
He grinned. “That’s what I’m here for.”
I let the moment settle, then went back to the kitchen.
Jojo was plating up, lips pressed so tight they’d turned white. He’d made a salad, too—crisp and bitter and loaded with things that, a year ago, I’d have called weeds.
Now I looked at it and saw life, not punishment.
“Table’s set,” he said.
I went to the dining room, grabbed plates, and started ferrying food. I could feel him watching me, waiting for the verdict.
I took a bite of biscuit, still steaming from the oven. Buttery and perfect.
He raised his eyebrows. I nodded, mouth full, and he let himself smile.
“Thanks, baby,” I said, loud enough to carry.
He flushed, but didn’t look away.
The others filtered in, drawn by the scent more than the invitation. Even Macon, who normally avoided “family dinner”like it was a live minefield, showed up and took his place at the end of the table.
Harrison sat, stiff as a board. Barrett next to him, fidgeting with the silverware.
Jojo set the roast down in front of me, then took the seat at my right. He didn’t flinch when I slid my hand over his, resting it there for everyone to see.
“Let’s eat,” I said. “Unless someone’s got more to say.”
Harrison glared, but his stomach spoke louder. He loaded his plate, refusing to make eye contact with anyone. Barrett ate in tiny, polite bites, watching Jojo with the wary admiration of a man who’d never met someone so earnest.
The food was the only thing that cut the tension. Every bite brought the temperature down, until the only sound was the scrape of cutlery and the low drone of the storm building outside.
Halfway through, Harrison muttered, “Not bad,” as if it wounded him to admit it.
I shot a look at Jojo, who met my eyes and grinned, just a little.
He was winning, in his own way.
Harrison hated to lose, but he hated being ignored even more. He waited until the last crumb was cleared, then angled himself between the kitchen and the door like a security checkpoint. His gaze never left Jojo, as if memorizing every weak point.
The rest of us lingered over pie—Jojo’s, of course, a pecan monster so sweet it could stun a bear. Macon and Burke dug in with the glee of men who knew their next meal might be MREs, but I barely tasted it. Every nerve was tuned to my father’s next move.
He struck as I stacked the plates in the sink.
“I didn’t come here to break bread with your… arrangement,” he said, voice low, that last word spat out like a virus.
Jojo stiffened, then shot me a look that was half apology, half fury. I shook my head, don’t you dare.
I faced my father head-on. “Then leave,” I said, gesturing to the door with a flick so sharp it could’ve cut rope. “Door’s right there. But if you stay, you respect my omega and you respect my home.”
The words hung for a moment. The farmhouse creaked—an old, familiar complaint—but this time it felt like it was on my side.
Harrison squared his shoulders, ignoring the out, and switched to the voice that used to command boardrooms and family dinners alike. “This isn’t over, Rawley. The Steele legacy doesn’t end because you decided to play house in the wilderness with some stray.”
“Careful,” I said. “You’re already over the line.”
