In fact, the conclusion I came to last night was that Emmaleen Rourke was none of his fucking business and I didn't owe him anything.
He's here because I allow it.
But she is mine.
Not his, not ours… mine.
Once Jino realized this, he lost his shit.
He didn't yell. Jino never yells. But his voice dropped into that register where every word is clipped and cold. His eyes narrowed and then he started demanding things.
What kind of leverage did Lorcan have that made retaliation impossible?
Why was Giovanni fucking Bavga suddenly impotent after his supposed 'friend' stole his collared submissive?
What the fuck wasthe plan?
When I didn't answer, his control cracked. He accused me of keeping secrets that endangered him, that put Emmaleen at risk, that violated the trust required for our arrangement to work.
I still said nothing.
The blood oath between Lorcan and me is absolute—a pact forged in frozen dirt and sealed with our own blood on a winter night that neither of us will ever speak of again.
The terms were explicit. Not one word. Not to priests seeking confession, not to family demanding explanations, not to lovers whispering in the dark, not to brothers-in-arms who've bled beside you in other wars.
This is an absolute rule with no exceptions under any circumstances, no matter how dire, no matter how much tactical advantage disclosure might provide.
One slip—one careless word spoken in anger, or fear, or whiskey-soaked weakness—and the other gets to retaliate.
And by 'retaliate' I mean kill, obviously.
Not justpermissionto kill—obligationto kill.
Because that's how blood oaths work in our world.
They're not symbolic gestures or dramatic promises made by boys playing at being men. They're binding contracts written in the only currency that matters.
You fuck with me, I fuck with you.
Mutually assured destruction.
We are equally damned, equally armed, equally bound.
Because what we did that freezing winter night at Saint Augustine's is an entirely sicker act than me blowing Rico LaRiccia's head off.
Much. Sicker.
I move away from the window as the bag downstairs takes another hit. The chain rattles. Jino doesn't stop.
I cross to the closet, shrugging out of yesterday's suit jacket. The shirt comes next. Slacks. Belt. Socks.
Everything peeled away until I'm standing in my boxer briefs, surrounded by the evidence of a man who had control twenty-four hours ago.
Had it. Past tense.
I catch my reflection in the mirror mounted on the closet door. Lean frame. Broad shoulders. The kind of body that looks good in tailored wool and better out of it. Women have told me this. Multiple women. In multiple languages.
I look exactly the same as I did yesterday.
