Chapter Seventeen
~ Rawley ~
They say a house remembers every footstep. If that was true, the old Steele homestead was about to file a whole new set of charges against us.
The living room, never a paragon of homey comfort, was now a pressure chamber. Fading sunlight bled out behind the mountains, slicing the place into gold and shadow, and somewhere between the grandfather clock and the leather wingback, a century and a half of bad blood took on physical weight.
At the center of it: me and Harrison Steele, neither one willing to blink.
He hadn’t aged in the ways you’d want your father to age. His hair was still the same hard silver, his frame as upright and commanding as a suit of armor on parade. The only real change was the cold around his eyes—he wore it now like a badge, daring the world to try and melt it.
Barrett, my brother, hovered just behind him, arms folded, mouth pinched in that anxious little twist he’d had since childhood. He’d always been the peacemaker, but now he just looked like he wanted to be anywhere else.
I squared up, feet planted. “You drove all the way out here to what, give me a lecture?”
Harrison’s jaw flexed. “I came because it’s my duty, as head of this family, to ensure the legacy remains intact. And you’re making a goddamn circus out of it.”
I heard the intake of breath behind me—Jojo, peeking around the kitchen archway, but I kept my focus front and center. Harrison never entered a room to observe. He entered to own.
“I’m not here to debate,” he went on, pacing a line between the fireplace and the leather chair as if he had a script. “I’m here to offer you a way out before you embarrass the Steele name any further.”
“You mean before I embarrass you,” I said.
He stopped, hand braced on the back of the chair.
“Don’t play games. You know damn well that what you do reflects on all of us.
You think the board wants to see a Steele playing house with—” he waved a hand toward the kitchen, then dropped it, as if Jojo’s existence was a medical condition he’d rather not describe aloud.
My blood went sharp and electric, the kind of anger that’s less heat and more a tightening, as if my skin was two sizes too small. I waited a half beat before answering.
“I’m not ‘playing house,’” I said. “I’m building one. On my terms.”
Barrett, ever the tactician, tried to slide in sideways. “Maybe we could all just… sit? Talk this through?”
Harrison shut him up with a glance. “You’re not part of this, Barrett. This is about succession rights, and respect, and the fact that the world is watching.”
I barked a short laugh. “Nobody cares, old man. There isn’t a single soul out here who gives a shit about board seats and bloodlines.”
“You don’t get it, do you?” Harrison’s voice was rising. “You’re not a rancher. You’re not even a real businessman. You’re a disgrace, and you’re taking this whole operation down with you.”
“That’s rich,” I said, “coming from a man who only knows how to build things with other people’s money. You think this land means anything to you? You didn’t even want it until Granddad skipped your name on the will.”
I saw the pulse jump in his jaw. “He was senile and you know it. This should never have been yours. And you’re proving it.”
My vision tunneled for a second, the air between us vibrating like a bridge about to snap. I made myself breathe, just once.
“You think you can walk in here and make demands?” I said, stepping forward. “This is MY home. You lost the right to command me the second you kicked me out. Remember?”
He matched my step, nose to nose, not quite as tall as me but still radiating that I-am-the-room energy that had kept me in line for two decades.
“You are a Steele, whether you like it or not. And you’re coming back to Texas.
There’s an arranged meeting next week, and you will attend it.
You’ll represent the family like a man, not a—” He stopped himself again, lips curling at the edge.
That was it. The last thread snapped.
“You talk about family like it’s a uniform you can’t take off,” I spat. “But you never cared about blood until you had a reputation to protect. This isn’t about legacy, it’s about control. You hate that I got away from you.”
He gave a little half-smile, practiced and lethal. “We all make sacrifices. Maybe you’ll understand when you’re older, or when that omega leaves you for a better offer.”
I felt the temperature in the room spike ten degrees. “Say one more word about him,” I said, my voice so flat I barely recognized it. “Just one.”
His gaze flicked to my fists, then back up. “What? You’ll punch your own father, right here? Go ahead. Prove me right.”
“Get out,” I said, every syllable a warning shot. “Get the hell out before I decide you’re a threat to my property.”
He held his ground, eyes glittering. “I’m not leaving until you agree to return with us. You’re still the legal guardian of the estate. If you don’t come back, there are consequences.”
“Try me,” I said.
Barrett hovered, caught in the crossfire, his voice small. “Dad, maybe we should—”
Harrison cut him off with a palm. “No. We finish this.”
At the edge of my vision, movement. Macon and Burke, flanking the entry, eyes hard and bodies tense—ready to pull me off Harrison, or maybe just savoring the show.
I raised my voice. “Macon. If my father tries to set foot upstairs or anywhere near my omega, you show him the door. Or the window. Whichever’s faster.”
Harrison sneered. “Hiding behind your goons now? Jesus, what happened to you?”
“They’re not goons,” I said. “They’re my friends. Which is more than I ever got from you.”
For a long moment, neither of us spoke. We just stood, two stone statues locked in a thousand-year grudge.
It was Barrett who finally broke. “Can we please, just—let’s talk it out, over dinner? Jojo’s been cooking all day. Maybe we could—”
Harrison glared at him. “We’re not staying. Pack your things, Rawley. You’re coming home if I have to drag you by the neck.”
I smiled, cold as the wind off the ridge. “You can try.”
He stepped forward, close enough that I could smell the Dallas cologne. “You were always a disappointment,” he hissed.
“And you were always a coward,” I replied.
That was the moment, right there, when the house learned a new kind of violence. The kind that didn’t need fists, only words, because they cut deeper and took longer to heal.
I could feel Jojo’s eyes on me from the kitchen, Macon’s hand flexing just out of view, Burke’s weight shifting like he was getting ready to drop the hammer.
And for the first time, I realized I wasn’t alone.
This was my home. Mine. And I’d burn it to the ground before I let anyone take it from me.
Outside, the night deepened into a black so thick it pressed against the glass. The kind of darkness that, back in SEAL training, meant you were either about to ambush or be ambushed.
Inside, the air changed. The hate and adrenaline that’d just hung in the living room started to melt under the weight of a new, heavier aroma: slow-cooked beef and something sweet, onions and—fuck, was that thyme? Even the rage in my bones couldn’t ignore it.
Harrison didn’t, either. He sniffed, nostrils flaring. “What is that smell?” The words came out like he was accusing someone of arson.
I snorted. “Farm food. Real food. You want some?”
Barrett, ever the diplomat, tried to soften it. “It’s… wow. Smells incredible.”
Harrison made a face, but his voice wavered with something almost like hunger. “We ate on the road.”
A thump and a clatter from the kitchen—Jojo, in full battle-cook mode, probably wielding a Dutch oven like a medieval weapon.
I remembered the first time I’d seen him go at it, his face smeared with flour, his hands a blur of motion and nerves.
He cooked like a man building a shelter in a hurricane—frantic, hopeful, and desperate to prove the elements wrong.
I left the family staring daggers at each other and went to the kitchen.
Jojo was there, framed in light, stirring a pot with the focus of a surgeon and the anxiety of a hostage. The counter was a war zone: every spice jar uncapped, flour dusting the old Formica, a slab of butter already reduced by half and melting in its paper wrapper.
He looked up, hair stuck to his forehead, cheeks flushed. “Are they… are they fighting?”
“Not anymore,” I said, leaning in the doorway. “I won.”
He snorted, a little too sharp, and went back to whisking. “That’s not what winning looks like. Rawley, you’re bleeding.”
I looked down. A thin red line ran across the back of my knuckles. I hadn’t even noticed.
“It’s nothing. You’re making pot roast?”
He nodded, not looking at me. “There’s biscuits, too. If I can finish before the power goes out.” He jerked his head toward the window, where lightning flickered in the distance.
I watched him move—quick, efficient, every motion calculated. There was a tension to it, a brittleness. I hated that my father did that to people. I hated more that I couldn’t shield Jojo from it.
“You need help?”
He shook his head. “Just… tell them dinner is ready in ten.” He said it like it hurt.
I lingered. “You okay?”
He stopped, spatula hovering over the skillet, and looked at me full on. “No,” he said, voice tight. “But I will be.”
He’d never looked more grown-up. Or more beautiful.
I squeezed his arm and went back to the living room.
They were where I left them, the two men who made my life hell, both pretending not to listen for the kitchen sounds.
“Dinner’s in ten. You can wash up if you want.” I paused, savoring the discomfort. “Bathroom’s down the hall.”
Harrison grunted, then looked at me. “We’re not here to make nice. You understand that.”
I matched his stare. “We’re not here to make you comfortable.”
He stood, straightening his jacket. “You’re throwing everything away for a man who’ll never be your equal.”
The anger came back, sharp and bright. “He’s already more of a man than you ever were.”
Barrett rose too, hands up, peacemaker to the end. “Maybe we could just…try? One meal, like a family.”
Harrison scoffed. “This isn’t a family. It’s a farce.”
Burke, perched on the edge of the armchair like a loaded spring, chimed in. “No offense, Mr. Steele, but your attitude might be the reason your son prefers it out here.”
Harrison looked at him, really looked, and for a second I thought he was going to say something genuinely lethal. But he just rolled his eyes, muttered something about “damn mercenaries,” and stalked off to the bathroom.
Barrett trailed after him, and I could hear the low, anxious chatter even as they moved down the hall. Burke shot me a look—half “you good?” and half “do I need to kill him for you?”
I nodded. “Thanks, man.”
He grinned. “That’s what I’m here for.”
I let the moment settle, then went back to the kitchen.
Jojo was plating up, lips pressed so tight they’d turned white. He’d made a salad, too—crisp and bitter and loaded with things that, a year ago, I’d have called weeds.
Now I looked at it and saw life, not punishment.
“Table’s set,” he said.
I went to the dining room, grabbed plates, and started ferrying food. I could feel him watching me, waiting for the verdict.
I took a bite of biscuit, still steaming from the oven. Buttery and perfect.
He raised his eyebrows. I nodded, mouth full, and he let himself smile.
“Thanks, baby,” I said, loud enough to carry.
He flushed, but didn’t look away.
The others filtered in, drawn by the scent more than the invitation. Even Macon, who normally avoided “family dinner” like it was a live minefield, showed up and took his place at the end of the table.
Harrison sat, stiff as a board. Barrett next to him, fidgeting with the silverware.
Jojo set the roast down in front of me, then took the seat at my right. He didn’t flinch when I slid my hand over his, resting it there for everyone to see.
“Let’s eat,” I said. “Unless someone’s got more to say.”
Harrison glared, but his stomach spoke louder. He loaded his plate, refusing to make eye contact with anyone. Barrett ate in tiny, polite bites, watching Jojo with the wary admiration of a man who’d never met someone so earnest.
The food was the only thing that cut the tension. Every bite brought the temperature down, until the only sound was the scrape of cutlery and the low drone of the storm building outside.
Halfway through, Harrison muttered, “Not bad,” as if it wounded him to admit it.
I shot a look at Jojo, who met my eyes and grinned, just a little.
He was winning, in his own way.
Harrison hated to lose, but he hated being ignored even more. He waited until the last crumb was cleared, then angled himself between the kitchen and the door like a security checkpoint. His gaze never left Jojo, as if memorizing every weak point.
The rest of us lingered over pie—Jojo’s, of course, a pecan monster so sweet it could stun a bear. Macon and Burke dug in with the glee of men who knew their next meal might be MREs, but I barely tasted it. Every nerve was tuned to my father’s next move.
He struck as I stacked the plates in the sink.
“I didn’t come here to break bread with your… arrangement,” he said, voice low, that last word spat out like a virus.
Jojo stiffened, then shot me a look that was half apology, half fury. I shook my head, don’t you dare.
I faced my father head-on. “Then leave,” I said, gesturing to the door with a flick so sharp it could’ve cut rope. “Door’s right there. But if you stay, you respect my omega and you respect my home.”
The words hung for a moment. The farmhouse creaked—an old, familiar complaint—but this time it felt like it was on my side.
Harrison squared his shoulders, ignoring the out, and switched to the voice that used to command boardrooms and family dinners alike. “This isn’t over, Rawley. The Steele legacy doesn’t end because you decided to play house in the wilderness with some stray.”
“Careful,” I said. “You’re already over the line.”
He smiled, tight and savage. “I’ll be back. With papers, with lawyers, with whatever it takes to see this mistake corrected.”
I advanced, every inch of me humming with purpose. We were close now—too close for safety, close enough to count his pores and the old surgical scar at his jaw line.
“One more word about him,” I growled, “and you’ll be eating through a straw for a month. Father or not.”
He stared, eyes glassy and hard. He wanted to call my bluff, but even he remembered what happened the last time he underestimated me. I could almost see him weigh the calculus: his ego versus his dental plan.
He stepped back, hands up. “Noted,” he said, just above a whisper.
Barrett looked between us, desperate to patch the fissure with whatever was left of his dignity. “Maybe—maybe we should just go. Dad, you’ve said your piece.”
For a second, I pitied him. He didn’t ask for this. But it was a war, and every war needed its casualties.