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Sweat tricklesdown my back as I lower myself into a squat, then brace my core and tighten my glutes to drive the weight I’ve got racked across my shoulders back up. The metal of the bar is warm in my grip, the feel of it as familiar as breathing. I’m on my third set, and—
I freeze at the top of the motion, my form perfect but my count off.
I blink.Isthis my third set? I’d been replaying a moment from the night before in my head, when Riley had helped me prep toppings for the pizzas she’d insisted we all make from scratch, and I’d lost count of my reps.
That never happens.
Except that it has been, several times over the last few weeks, and it’s not the only area that cracks have started to form in the strict routine and regimented order I’ve created for my life.
In the past, those kinds of breaks have felt like painful losses of control, making me feel like I was teetering on the brink of a terrifying abyss, the skin of my body flayed raw, leaving me exposed and in danger of spiraling down into chaos.
And yet, I don’t feel any of that right now. Just a mild annoyance that I’m not sure how many sets I’ve actually completed.
I lower the bar to the ground and stretch out my neck, then walk over to the edge of the mat and hydrate with four ounces of water. Using the break to examine this odd change.
I have no interest in abandoning the order in my life and no expectation or desire to change entirely, but it’s also pleasant in a way I never expected to feel so calm about the unexpected variation in my routine.
I doubt I’ll ever stop being haunted by the horrors of my past, but the darkness they bred inside me hasn’t spawned the same kind of monster that lived in my mother. I was shaped by her evil, but I wasn’t shaped in her image.
The realization is freeing, and when I recap my water bottle and set it down on the shelf, I place it off center, then turn back to the mat to continue my set.
For a moment. The misplacement is too much, and I quickly turn around and align the bottle where it belongs, in the precise center of the shelf. But when I restart my squats, I don’t let concerns about the exact number of reps I zoned out on slow me down, I simply pick up from the start of my third set, and the world doesn’t spiral out of control. In fact, I shock myself when I finish and enter my bathroom to shower, because my reflection in the mirror is actually smiling.
I quickly correct that, but then strip down and step under the hot spray of water only to be surrounded by the sweet, musky scent of Riley. I fucked her against the glass in here less than twenty-four hours ago, and I’ll have to do it again—soon, and regularly—if it’s going to keep my shower smelling of her like this.
I soap up and realize I’m not just smiling again, I’m full-on grinning, my cock hard and dripping from the memory. I stroke it, my body constantly insatiable for my wildcat, but then force my hand away because the pleasure isn’t something I want to bother with until I can share it with her again.
And I know exactly how I want to do that today. Something I’ve been planning for a while.
I finish cleaning myself, quickly and efficiently, then dry off and dress before pulling the item I purchased for her out of my desk drawer. I know she’ll still be asleep at this hour, and that’s fine. She’s very, very good at following directions.
I quickly pen a note with instructions, then slip into her room and leave the note and her gift on the pillow next to her. Her face is soft and beautiful when she sleeps, and I’m tempted for a moment to wake her, kiss and defile her, ease the pressure of my arousal in the sweet, welcoming heat of her body.
But that can wait, and it will be all the more enjoyable for the delay.
I go downstairs to start breakfast, my brothers each wandering in shortly thereafter.
“Coffee?” Dante asks us both, heading straight to the machine.
Maddoc grunts his reply, which we all know is and always will be yes to that question, and I give Dante a small nod as I dice peppers for the omelets I’m going to make.
“What’s the word from Ruiz?” Dante asks, leaning back against the counter as the coffee brews. “Is he gonna go in on the new supply route with us?”
We slip into a discussion of the partnership we’ve been working on with the 17th Street Gang as I cook, and just before the omelets are ready to be plated, Riley walks in.
She looks radiant. Always. But there’s a particular flush to her cheeks that sends heat shooting through my body.
We exchange a look, and the answering heat in her eyes tells me that she’s obeyed my instructions.
I’m tempted to grin, but I school my features through force of habit. The gift she’s given me, though—putting herself at my mercy and under my control—has a dark excitement brewing in me that’s harder to contain.
I serve up breakfast while the three of them switch from talking about Reaper business to discussing the schools we’ve been looking into for Chloe. While she was in the safe house with Nathan, she finished up her GED since she missed her high school graduation while West Point held her captive, and now, with the financial resources Riley has, she’s determined to follow through on her goal of sending her sister to college.
“That’s too far away,” she says to Maddoc when he pushes for a school on the east coast that Chloe’s expressed an interest in.
“Getting her out of Halston for a while isn’t a bad idea, butterfly.”
“She doesn’t need to go that far! She’s not in danger anymore, not now that West Point is gone.”
