Chapter Seven #2
That’s when Slater Construction started.
Out in the open, it was a way to build something real.
A roof we could all stand under. We worked ourselves to the bone—Corver at nineteen was already running the books, having taught himself code and fraud systems on a shitty laptop when we were teens.
Josh and I hauled lumber, hammered nails, did the grunt jobs no one wanted.
We clawed our way up from remodels and drywall patches to skyscrapers and city contracts.
And behind that shiny mask? I hunted men like the one who took our mom.
Predators. Wife-beaters. The kind of men who smiled at church and signed contracts by day, then left bruises blood behind closed doors.
I didn’t do it for the thrill or for money—we already had more than enough of that.
I did it because someone had to. Because justice, as the world saw it, never came fast enough for people like us.
I carried the weight of every woman I couldn’t save, every cry that came too late.
Sometimes, I’d see it flicker behind my smile—the cost of being the kind of man who plays savior and executioner in the same breath.
My hands were steady when they shouldn’t have been.
My eyes stayed soft, even when the work hardened the rest of me.
And maybe that’s what scared me most. How easily I could be both—the protector and the storm that burned everything unsafe out of our path.
The reflection in the mirror now is that of a man—six-six, three hundred pounds, built from fury and survival.
I box. I fight. I choke men out until their lights go dark, then I walk away and sleep fine.
Because I know the world’s lighter without them in it.
My body’s not just muscle. It’s purpose.
Every scar and inked line is a ledger of what we’ve done, what we’ve built.
The mirror fogs as I step into the shower, water hammering down on me.
For a long minute, I just stand there, letting it batter my shoulders, letting the pain of the last few days wash down the drain.
The heat loosens the knots in my back but not the ones in my chest. Gavin’s face is still there, grinning.
The sound of his laugh still drills into me.
The sound of Natasha’s scream carved into my bones.
Shampoo. Rinse. Routine movements that give my hands something to do when my head won’t shut off.
I add the conditioner and then close my eyes, pressing my palms against the tile, forehead leaning into the steam.
I add face wash to my hands and begin to scrub my face and beard until my skin feels a bit raw.
I think about Natasha—Corver’s face when he saw her in that video. The rage there. The helplessness.
I rinse my face and the conditioner at the same time.
I think about Juniper, tucked into the guest room, pretending like she isn’t shaking when the lights go out.
I wash my body methodically, my brain still circling all the information we’ve learned over the past few days.
I think about Gavin promising he’ll take everything from Stefan O’Brien.
And I think about Surry—whoever the hell she is—caught in the middle of it all.
I don’t like it when women are the means men use to get what they want.
When the water runs cold, I twist it off and grab the towel from the hook. I drag it over my skin, rough, quick, before shaking droplets from my hair and wrapping the towel around my hips as I step back into my room to check my phone. The cool air slaps me, raising goosebumps on my arms.
That’s when I notice my door.
It isn’t closed anymore.
And in the frame—like some apparition I conjured with my thoughts—she stands.
A blond. Not just blond. Bleach-white, long, loose, falling like silk over her shoulders. Eyes green as a storm-lit wave, the kind that drags sailors under, wide, startled, locked on me. Her lips part on a tiny breath, the sound barely audible over the pounding of my own pulse.
I collect myself quickly, because whoever this goddess is deserves me at my best. And I’m going to give it to her.
“Enjoying the show, darling?” I let the words roll low, gravel in my chest.
Her gaze dips—to where my hand grips the towel low. It lingers. I let my fingers loosen just a bit, dropping it just a bit to show my V-line to her a bit more. Her pupils widen. She doesn’t run. Doesn’t even blink.
“I-I’m sorry. I thought this was the bathroom.” Her voice shakes, but her feet don’t move.
She’s frozen. Prey caught in the stare of a predator. And I can’t look away.
My eyes drag down her frame, greedy. Black ripped jeans cling to long legs, her bare ankles showing off tattoo sleeves.
Checkered Vans—scuffed to hell at the toes—pull it all together.
A black tank top that simultaneously shows off her arm sleeves and chest tattoo, a Medusa, and dips just enough to tease curves she probably doesn’t even realize she’s showing.
Her lips are pink and soft, trembling as she swallows.
There’s heat in her stare, buried under embarrassment.
I step forward, slow, deliberate. She presses back until the door frame catches her shoulder blades.
My arm plants above her head, forearm braced on the wall, caging her in.
My other hand is hanging from the top of the frame.
My body towers over her, close enough to feel her breath stutter against my chest.
Then her scent hits me—sweet, feminine, something floral twisted with earth and smoke. It winds into me, dangerous, addictive.
“Like I said, Siren,” I look into those emerald eyes, trying to see into her soul, leaning over so I can murmur against the shell of her ear, my breath grazing her skin. “Are you enjoying the show?”
“I-I-I—” she stammers, lips trembling. Her eyes flick from mine to my mouth, and back again. That stare alone could set me off.
“You keep looking at me like that, and I’m going to put those lips to good use since they can’t seem to get any words out.”
Her breath hitches. Her chest rises. And fuck, I want—
“SURRY!” A male voice bellows from the kitchen, snapping the string taut between us.
She jolts, eyes wide.
“Sorry,” she mumbles, dragging her gaze away like it costs her something. “It seems I’m being summoned.”
Fuck. This is Surry? If, if I had known. Fuck. I open my mouth to say something, but I’m not sure what. I close my mouth again while I think and look toward the hall with what I assume is an expression filled with disdain, but inside I’m already replaying every second.
I point to the door across from mine. “That’s the bathroom. But I’ve got one in here if you’d rather use it.” I wink, letting the heat linger between us. I can’t just let her walk away if I can help it.
Her cheeks flush a shade of pink I’d kill to see again. She spins away and steps into the guest bath. But before the door clicks shut, she glances back once more. Green fire, lust, embarrassment, all tangled into one.
The lock snicks.
And I know it, certain as blood:
I will never let anyone touch that girl again.
She is mine.