I felt Pierce tense beside me.
“He’s not a mistake,” he said, his voice low but sharp enough to cut through the noise.
His father stepped forward then, closer to the screen, his expression dark.
“This is exactly why we cut you off,” he said, looking directly at me.
“This kind of… lifestyle. This filth.”
“And we were right to do it, because I won’t have a faggots for sons. I wanted my sons to be real men, someone that would lead my empire with me. Someone that I can be proud of. Instead… I got… you two,” he added.
I guess it was the breaking point for Pierce. Because he snapped the second he heard those words.
“You should be very careful with your words,” he said quietly.
His father scoffed.
“Or what?”
Pierce stepped closer to the camera.
And I swear—
Even through a screen, the air changed.
“Or those words might be the last thing you ever say.”
My breath caught, because I’ve seen Pierce angry before. But this? This was something else.
“And let me make something very clear,” he continued, his voice calm in a way that made it even worse.
“If either of you ever disrespect him again—”
“—there are lines I won’t hesitate to cross.”
“That’s your only warning.”
And then—
The call ended.
Before I can overthink it—
I move, wrap my arms around his waist, he freezes for half a second, then his hands come up, gripping me tightly.
I tilt my head up, and kiss him.
My fingers curl into his shirt.
“Let’s go to bed. Now.”
The bedroom door slams open so hard it nearly hits the wall.
And before I can even catch my breath—
I’m on the bed, thrown back against the sheets.
The red glow of the lamp bleeds across Pierce’s bedroom like a slow wound, turning the silk sheets into something slick and alive under my fingers. I don’t know why he keeps the light like this—like we’re in some backroom club instead of his penthouse—but it makes everything feel heavier, the air thick with the scent of leather and the sharp, bitter tang of the whiskey. His cologne lingers too, something dark and woody, clinging to the heat between us.
