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I smile down at her, running my thumb along her jaw. “I think you’re underestimating his obsession with you, Doll Baby.”

She grins back but shakes her head. “You facilitated that. All of it. You’re a leader, Damon Kemp, whether you believe it or not.”

I stare at this woman–my Baroness, my everything–and wonder how the hell I got so lucky. Then I realize it wasn’t luck. I was chosen. We all were.

I roll us so I’m on top of her, bracing my weight on my forearms. I kiss her slowly, deeply, pouring every unspoken fear and hope into it. She opens for me immediately, hands sliding up my back, nails lightly dragging across my skin. The kiss turns heated, tongues sliding, breaths mingling. I can feel her heart racing against my chest.

I move lower, kissing down her throat, across her collarbones, and take one pierced nipple into my mouth. I suck gently, then harder, tugging on the jewel with my teeth until she arches and moans my name. I give the other the same attention, licking and sucking until both nipples are tight and glistening.

My hand slides between her legs, feeling the wet heat pooled between her thighs. I stroke her slowly, teasing her clit piercing with my thumb while two fingers sink inside her. She rocks against my hand, whispering my name like a prayer.

When I finally push into her, it’s slow and deep. I want her to feel every inch. I want that connection. We move together in a steady rhythm, bodies pressed close, skin sliding against skin. There’s no violence tonight, no desperate edge. Just two people who came into this house lost, but have now found something bigger. I pour everything I feel into every thrust–the fear of not being enough, the overwhelming feelings I have for her, the fierce need to protect what we’ve rebuilt.

Arianette wraps her legs around my waist, heels digging into my back as she meets me thrust for thrust. Her hands cup my face, forcing me to look at her as pleasure builds between us.

“I love you,” I whisper against her lips, the words rough and raw, slipping out faster than I can think. “Just fucking know that, okay?”

If it surprises her, she doesn’t show it, instead just saying, “I love you, too, Damon.”

She comes first, clenching tight around me, crying out my name as her body shakes. The feeling drags me over the edge right behind her. I bury myself deep and groan into her neck as I come, pulsing inside her in long, powerful waves.

We stay locked together afterward, breathing hard, hearts pounding in sync. I don’t know if it’s from the orgasm or from what I just confessed. Maybe both. Rolling to the side, I pull her against my chest, holding her tight.

With her by my side, the crown doesn’t feel quite so heavy.

31

Timothy

Graves parks the car in the lot outside Bruin’s Gym. I’m still not supposed to drive –doctor’s orders–so he’s been playing chauffeur more often than either of us would like. I sit in the passenger seat, staring at the familiar building, steeling myself for what’s coming. “You sure you want to do this?” Graves asks quietly, hands resting on the wheel.

“It’s time.” I suspected it when Arianette made the connection with the colors and my Chi Gong practice. But the argument with Nick Bruin solidified it. “I can’t carry this secret anymore. He deserves to know.”

It’s the middle of the day. The gym is relatively quiet except for the rhythmic thud of gloves on pads and the occasional grunt from two people sparring in the main ring. I recognize my son’s stance immediately–tall, broad-shouldered, white-blond hair darkened with sweat. Some of the leanness of his youth has filled out into solid, powerful muscle.

“Take a wrong turn?” a woman’s voice calls out. When I glance over, Liberty Sinclaire–Mama B–smirks at me from behind the counter where they sell tickets during the Fury. Her vibrant auburn hair is teased high in her signature style, and those striking green eyes take me in. Her look hasn’t changed since we were students together: a black leather jacket over a tight cleavage-revealing top, snake-skin pants hugging her curves, and out of sight, a pair of five-inch stiletto boots.

“Liberty,” I say, nodding respectfully.

“Timothy,” she replies, the edge in her tone lingering. “Thought maybe the devil finally got his claws in you and was going to keep you on the other side.” Her bracelets jingle when she brushes her hair back over her shoulder and I see the dark ink of a bear paw on her wrist. “Where you belong.”

“Fair assessment, but apparently I had a few things on this side of the veil left to settle.”

She glances toward the ring where Remy is moving. “Good luck.” She pushes her hair back dramatically. “I’m off to see my grandbaby. Pauly will have to supervise.” She gestures to the older man in the ring with Remy. “But try not to get too much blood on the mat. We just cleaned it.”

She walks off, hips swaying. Being a grandmother suits her, somehow softening the edges without dulling her fire.

I walk up to the ring and watch the two men spar for a few minutes. Pauly has been the trainer at the West End gym for going on a decade. He’s older, his beard gray now, but still quick on his feet. Remy is clearly holding back, but there’s still that raw power in every punch.

Remy’s so deep in the zone, that when he finally notices me, he flinches back, startled. That’s when Pauly lands a clean shot to his jaw.

“Hey!” Remy says, rubbing his jaw with a glove. “I was distracted.”

“Rookie move,” Pauly laughs, then gives me a long, knowing look. “If you need help with that tape, let me know. I’ll be in the training room.” He climbs out of the ring, leaving us alone.

“What are you doing here, old man?” Remy asks, wiping sweat off his forehead with the hem of his shirt. “Healed up enough to get in the ring?” He slams his fists together with a smirk. “Ready for an ass-kicking?”

“Not quite,” I say, hating that it’s the truth. “But I may end up with one by the end of the day anyway.”