I motion to my cheek, the place where London wears a bandage. “He’s responsible for the injuries to her face.”
My fists clench. Rage leaks into my posture despite my best efforts.
“And it’s not an isolated incident. He beat her for years. Threatened worse." My voice drops to a flat, dead register. "He found her new apartment days before she showed up here. She barely escaped him.”
No one speaks. No one moves.
"He needs to be gone," I say. "I'm not looking for a conversation. I'm not looking for a warning. Gone. Permanently.”
Chaos holds my gaze. "You want to handle it yourself?"
The question is standard. Personal business stays personal unless you ask for help. And part of me—a large, savage, screaming part—wants to wrap my hands around Greg Bowman's throat and watch the life drain from his eyes.
“Fuck yeah, I do.” I look at Demon. “I’ll need some help with the cleanup.”
Demon's face doesn't shift. It never does when violence is on the table. He gives a single nod. "Consider it done."
This time, I can’t contain my grin. It’s good to know that despite what a complete fucking asshole I’ve been lately, my brothers still have my back.
Chapter 11
London
Steam billows around us, thick and warm, as Zeus presses me against the tile wall. Water cascades down his shoulders, tracing the lines of his tattoos, and his mouth is on my neck—hot, open-mouthed kisses that make my knees buckle.
"Christopher,” I gasp as his hand slides between my thighs.
"Right here, sweetheart." His voice is a growl against my pulse point. His fingers find me, stroke me, and my head falls back against the cool tile. "Always so ready for me."
Two weeks. It’s been fourteen days since he took my virginity, since I gave him something I'd never given anyone. And every single day since, he's found new ways to make my body sing.
His free hand grips my hip, holding me steady while his fingers work me into a frenzy. I grab his shoulders, nails biting into wet muscle, and he hisses through his teeth—pleasure, not pain.
“I want you," I manage. "Inside me."
He doesn't need to be told twice. His hands drop to my thighs, lifting me against the wall. I wrap my legs around hiswaist, and he enters me in one smooth thrust that punches a moan from both of us.
"Fuck." His forehead drops to mine, eyes screwed shut. "Never gonna get tired of this. How tight you are. How wet you get for me."
He moves—deep, rolling thrusts that press me harder against the tile with each one. Water streams between our bodies, making everything slick and hot. I cling to him, my heels digging into the small of his back, urging him deeper.
"You like that, sweetheart? Like when I fuck you against the wall?"
"Yes." The word comes out wrecked. "Harder."
His grip on my thighs tightens, and he obeys. His pace turns relentless—pounding, claiming—and the sound of wet skin slapping fills the bathroom. My vision goes spotty. The pressure builds so fast it nearly hurts.
"Come for me." An order, not a request. "Come on my cock, London."
I detonate. My whole body locks and shakes, and I bury my scream in his shoulder. He follows seconds later, his hips stuttering, his arms crushing me against him as he spills his release.
We stay like that—tangled, panting, the water growing lukewarm around us—until my legs stop trembling enough to stand.
He sets me down with care, his hands lingering on my waist. Tipping my chin up, he kisses me. Slow this time. Tender. The contrast between the brutality of how he just took me and the gentleness of this kiss is something I treasure.
“I gotta get to the shop," he murmurs against my mouth. "Club business."
"Mmm." I don't want to let go of him.
