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“Show up,” I tell him. “The wedding’s going forward as planned.”
“God Himself couldn’t keep me away,” Aldis says, and I believe him when he says that too. But God may interfere this time.
I wait to see if he’ll beg for me to forgive Rhys, to commute his sentence and allow him to stay, but he doesn’t. Maybe he really does know better. Someday, Aldis will retire and be wherever his son is, but I have a few years with him left.
“I’ll speak to you when I get back to the office,” I say, then hang up without letting him say goodbye.
I let the phone clatter to the table and drop my face into my hands. I’m exhausted, feeling lost, my absent leg is throbbing, and I feel strangely alone in this moment. Sometimes I can forget how heavy the weight is to carry a kingdom on my shoulders, and sometimes it’s unbearable. Sometimes I let myself think about how the world will keep turning, and life will go on, and very little will change if the Walshes all disappeared.
This city was not built on the backs of my forefathers. It was just shaped in a way that people have forgotten that we’re not necessary. The only ones who could crumble without it are us.
A hand on my shoulder alerts me to the fact that I’ve dropped my guard, and for a second, it shakes me before I remember that we’re safe here. Safer than I’ve ever been. It wouldn’t last even if we chose to stay, but for now, I can have this.
I reach up, pulling whoever it is into my lap, and for a brief moment, I’m shocked to see that it’s Ari. He’s been so wound up he’s the last person I expect to be here, but he perches on my knee and stares up into my face with a question in his eyes.
“What is it?” I lift a hand to his throat and stroke my thumb over his scars.
He swallows thickly, then lifts a hand. ‘Who was that?’
“On the phone?” I ask with a frown, then shake my head. “Just Aldis.” My thumb runs over his throat again. “It’s nothing to worry about.”
He snorts quietly through his nose, shaking his head. ‘Not worried.’
Of course he isn’t. I don’t know that he’s truly capable of fear, though I saw a flicker of it years ago when I was furious enough to kill James. I think there might be something in Ari that does feel the same way we do. But it’s buried so deep under trauma and determination to never, ever be vulnerable again that it may never see the light of day.
My precious little psychopath.
I cup his cheek and kiss him slowly, teeth scraping his tongue, digging into his lip. He squirms on my lap as I press the heel of my hand over his dick, which isn’t quite hard yet, but it’s getting there. “Is this what you came for?” I murmur.
His hand flails before it lands on mine and taps out a stuttered ‘Just you.’
That goes straight to my head. It’s not often I get Ari like this. It was this way in the beginning, when something cracked, and I began to see him as mine in the same way Phoenix was. Hewanted to prove to me that he was worthy of keeping, so he gave himself to me, but I could never be sure if he truly wanted it.
I’m sure now. He’s a good actor—better than most—and innocent-looking with his big eyes and sweet smile. But he can’t fake it anymore. Not in my arms.
My fingers flick open the button on his jeans, pulling the zipper down just enough so I can get my hand in his boxers, and then I curl my fingers around his cock. “Work for it, sweet thing,” I whisper.
His hips tremble and thrust, trying to get as much friction as he can while I hold him still. His skin is hot, and he’s needy and desperate, and he knows I won’t give in easily.
“Look at you,” I whisper.
His breath is ragged, and it’s making him cough, but he ignores it as he tries to move his hips faster. I squeeze my fingers just a bit more, and his head falls back against my shoulder. His feet are pressing to the floor, trying to lift his ass from my lap, but I hold him fast.
“I think you can do better than that,” I tell him.
His breath leaves him in a rush, his nails digging into my thighs. His cock is pulsing now, and I can feel the frustration radiating off him in waves. He hates being edged, and watching him submit to it is fucking beautiful.
I move my hand slowly to the head of his cock and rub my thumb over the slit. He’s so fucking wet. He’s not like the others who have to work hard for just a few drops of precome. His comes in a steady stream, and I urge it to dribble down his cock to ease the way.
“Hold still,” I finally tell him. He struggles to obey, but after a second, he does. He’s stiff in my arms, and I know that a single snap and he’ll lose his self-control. “You keep entirely still, and I’ll make you come.”
He huffs, but he doesn’t move, and I count five seconds that I know feels impossible before I stroke him once—tip to root, back to tip again. I cup the head of his dick, then scrape my fingers over it.
“That’s right,” I tell him. He’s trembling, but he’s holding on. “Such a fucking good boy, aren’t you?”
He chokes, and I give him a moment to catch his breath. I feel the way his fingers are pulsing against me, and I try to see if there’s a pattern of words there, but it’s just wordless begging.
Oh, my sweet, sweet thing.
