It’s been going on for almost five years now. Five years of deals, contracts, and begging men in our world to take his eldest daughter’s hand in marriage.
His first mistake, really. He gave her to his second-in-command years ago in a fucked-up decree when she was thirteen. Completely against the rules—you have to be twenty-one to get a decree—but it was his way of solidifying his line, while never giving the throne to a woman.
He never expected Michael to die. He was told a heart attack—but I watched Maeve, at just shy of twenty-one, plunge her knife into his chest like a repenting nun looking for salvation in his blood. It was beautiful—and her rage was a balm to everything I’ve felt since I could breathe.
Unfortunately, that left a vacuum in Ferguson’s life. He’s been holding off naming Maeve as heir, praying he can marry her off to a suitable replacement. His second mistake was creating a woman so terrifying that the devil wouldn’t take her.
His third mistake? Hiring me to vet every contract. I’ve used all my skills to kill every agreement before anyone takes Maeve as their wife. Whether staged as in-fighting between factions or unexplained deaths, I’ve kept all interested parties away. Why?
Because no one gets Maeve. No one.Except me.
I spent years in this house with her. I saw the broken limbs, the split lips, the bloody shirts. I fought with her—and against her, as a rival in this clan for Ferguson’s attention. And I healed those wounds, begging to know how they came about.
She never told me. But I also never looked into it further than what she offered. I chalked it up to her temper—a vicious thing—and let myself be consumed with fitting into the clan. Doing Ferguson’s bidding. Learning. Absorbing. And never once did I care to dig deeper.
I was a fucking idiot. I let her be consumed by the torment alone. But not any longer.
At first, she was an enigma. Then, someone to bother—I’ve always been a bit sadistic in that regard. It was fun to see her mad, the way her eyes lit up, the way her cheeks turned red. Then it shifted. She became less of a demon to haunt, to something more.
So much fucking more.
She became my ruin. My sanctuary. The reason I can’t sleep—unless I know she’s safe. She’s the keeper of my demented, black heart, held captive by those scarred, dainty hands that are more accustomed to holding a knife than something precious.
His fourth mistake? Assuming my loyalty was only tied to him. He gave me a bed, food, and a purpose, but he didn’t give me love. Not like Maeve. Because of that, my loyalty hasn’t belonged to Ferguson in a long time.
Shifting, I throw the paper onto the desk, pain flaring along my sides. Bruised ribs, a dislocated shoulder, and a few knife wounds, my body rebels at the sudden movement.
That was my first mistake. I thought this last contract would be easy—a quick trip, killed and discarded in the bayou. But this old fucker Ferguson negotiated with was crafty—and full of surprises.
I went there over a year ago, with a plan to come home in a week. It took me seventeen months of working my way close enough through the bullshit to learn the old man knew what I was doing. That I was killing off the competition so Maeve would stay free. He surrounded and subdued me.
Then, I was held for a month in captivity. My biggest fear.
Being locked away isn’t ideal–but I wasn’t worried about dying there. I’ve never been frightened of the Grim Reaper. He and I are old friends. What terrified me most was the possibility of never seeing Maeve again—her big green eyes, the raspy breath she makes right before she cums on my tongue, the wayshe clings to me during a nightmare. That kept me from losing my shit and forced me to plan my escape.
It took time, and a greedy, motivated heir. But with his help, I killed the leader, handing him the keys to an empire with an explicit deal to never ask for Maeve’s hand in marriage lest I take his tongue as a trophy, and a chartered flight out of the south.
I only returned hours earlier. I haven’t spoken to Maeve in months—going dark as I always do before a mission. I’m dying to stalk these halls until my eyes land on her again–but I have to recap with the clan’s captain before I find her.
Ferguson taps the paper. “Melancon.” The name sounds like old money.
“You’re trying another southern clan?” My stomach twists.
Ferguson flicks the butt of his cigar into the ashtray. Smoke drifts around us; the atmosphere dark and seedy. Familiar. “It’s the last option I have. They handle guns. It’ll bring both of us into a new era of prosperity.”
My jaw cracks, tension drawing my pain higher, but I remain still. “When do you want me to see him?”
I don’t want to leave again. I want to stay—be here, with Maeve, watching her rule this fucking empire she built—but her safety means more than my selfish desire to pry her legs apart and never leave her again.
“Preferably, right away.”
I nod once. The faster I end the threats to her seat, the faster she’ll be named heir.
“I’ll get on a plane tomorrow.”
Once this is over, Maeve is mine.Finally.
My mentor smiles, relieved. “Good man.”
