"I have the situation under control," I say.
"Do you?"
"Yes."
The lie comes easily, but we both know it's a lie. Josiah sighs and shakes his head.
"I hope you know what you're doing," he says. "Because if this goes wrong—if she becomes a problem—the Brotherhood won't hesitate to solve it. With or without your permission."
The threat lands exactly as intended. Cold fury rises in my chest.
"If anyone touches her," I say quietly, "I'll kill them myself. Brotherhood or not. Do you understand?"
Josiah stares at me. I see the shock register in his eyes, the realization of how far gone I really am. I've never threatened Brotherhood members before. I've never put anything—anyone—above the family, the organization, the legacy we've built.
Until now.
"I understand," he says slowly. "I hope you do too."
He leaves without another word.
I stand alone in my study, breathing hard, trying to calm the rage still simmering in my blood. The threat was real. If anyone tried to hurt her, I would destroy them without hesitation. Brother, cousin, ally—it wouldn't matter.
She's mine now. And I protect what's mine.
The realization should concern me. It does concern me, in a distant, intellectual way. But the visceral truth is simpler: I would burn the Brotherhood to the ground before I let them touch her.
What does that make me? What have I become?
I don't know. I don't care.
I pull out my phone and type the message before I can think better of it:Tonight. 8 pm. A car will collect you.
Her response comes within minutes:I'll be ready.
Three words. That's all. But the relief that floods through me is embarrassing in its intensity. She's coming back. She'll be here in a few hours, in my space, in my arms, in my bed.
The afternoon crawls by. I try to work, to focus, to be the man I was before she walked into my life. It's impossible. My mind keeps circling back to her—the sounds she makes, the way she tastes, the look in her eyes when she finally stopped fighting and let herself want me.
By seven o'clock, I've given up any pretense of productivity. I shower again, change into fresh clothes, pour myself a whiskey I don't really want. The house feels too quiet, too empty, too full of spaces where she isn't.
When the car finally pulls up at eight, I'm waiting at the door like a dog.
She steps out into the evening light, and the sight of her hits me like a physical blow. She's wearing something simple—dark jeans, a soft sweater—but it doesn't matter what she's wearing. She could be wrapped in burlap, and she'd still be the most beautiful thing I've ever seen.
The marks from last night are visible on her throat, peeking above her collar. She hasn't tried to hide them. The realization sends a surge of primitive satisfaction through me.
Mine. Marked. Claimed.
"You came," I say, which is stupid—of course she came, I summoned her—but my brain isn't functioning properly.
"You asked." She stops at the bottom of the steps, looking up at me. There's something different in her expression tonight. Less fear. More... acceptance? Resignation? I can't quite read it.
"I didn't ask. I told."
"Yes." A faint smile touches her lips. "You did."
I descend the steps and stop in front of her, close enough to touch but not touching. Not yet. I want to savor this moment—the anticipation, the tension, the electricity crackling between us.
