Chapter 7 Ridge
SEVEN
Ridge
Café au Lait Tradition: Chicory coffee, served with steamed milk, became a staple when coffee supplies ran low during the Civil War, making it an enduring part of New Orleans culture.
Sweat saturates my skin, a thin sheen catching the dim light spilling in from the hall as I pull myself upright and reach for my clothes on the floor.
The room is still warm, thick with the aftermath of something that should not have happened. I am aware of her watching me from the bed, silent, unmoving. I don’t look back. I don’t need to. That awareness alone is enough.
This was not about connection. It was about release. About a line she pushed, and I let her before I shut it down.
I drag on my boxers, the rough fabric grounding me, anchoring me back in the present. Whatever just happened does not change the situation. She is still here for a reason, and I am still in control.
Control, I understand. Uncertainty is something she just introduced, and now I’m pissed I lost my head for a moment.
“You can sleep without the restraints,” I say, keeping my voice flat. Transactional. “Until you give me a reason not to trust you.”
She says nothing. There’s no argument, no agreement. Just quiet. Her silence follows me to the door.
I pull my shirt over my head and catch the faint trace of her on my skin. I take a step toward the door and force myself not to turn around. Distance matters. It always does.
“There are towels, shampoo, and soap in the bathroom,” I add, already moving. The door closes behind me with a soft click that sounds final, even to my own ears.
In my bedroom, the quiet presses in. The walls are thick here, built to contain sound, built for situations like this. I know she is secure. Her door locks automatically, and the single window is reinforced.
The house is doing what it was designed to do. The problem is that tonight, I let the complication in.
I sit on the edge of the bed and let the weight of it settle into my bones. Exhaustion comes easily. Sleep will not.
As I drop onto the sheets, the frame creaks under my weight, the mattress thin and unforgiving. This bed is nothing like the goose-down, pillow-top indulgence I’m accustomed to at my penthouse in Algiers Point.
But it will do.
The release I felt back there with her was a momentary relief, like cracking open a valve on a pressure tank. But it’s gone now, leaving a hollow calm, something closer to numbness.
Tomorrow is already waiting. Family, questions, and the betrayals multiplying since my father’s death: none of them are going anywhere.
Right now, exhaustion wins.
I lie back and lace my hands behind my head and stare at the ceiling until the dark blurs at the edges, my body finally still.
Light leaks through the blinds. I blink against it, disoriented, fragments of a dream or a memory clinging just out of reach.
My jaw aches. My shoulders are tight. Nothing feels settled.
I rub my face and force myself fully awake.
My body is heavy, as if it has not quite registered that she is no longer here. The wall between us does nothing to loosen the tension locked into my muscles.
I roll onto my side and press my palm into the mattress, but it doesn’t help. The faint trace of her still clings to my skin, subtle but persistent, enough to drag my thoughts back where they do not belong.
That reaction alone irritates me.
I glance at my hurt hand, at the soiled bandage, remembering the heat of her skin, the way she met my gaze without flinching. It’s all wrong.
I take off the wrap and try to put her and what we did out of my mind. My thoughts fade back into something manageable, filed where they belong. Not gone, just contained.
That will have to be enough.
I throw off the covers and force myself upright while fighting the urge to give in to the memory, to let it linger.
This isn’t me. I don’t get tangled up in emotions. She’s a means to manipulate and punish her father, nothing more. That’s what I need to keep telling myself.
With a low curse under my breath, I head for the bathroom. Distance did not work. Sleep did not work. I need this out of my system before it bleeds into the rest of the day.
Steam fills the shower as the water heats. I step under it and let the spray hit hard, scalding enough to demand my attention. It helps, briefly.
It doesn’t last.
My body reacts anyway, tension coiling where I do not want it, a reminder that last night is not done with me yet. That irritates me more than the desire itself.
I brace my injured hand against the tile out of the spray and force my breathing steady, jaw clenched. I wrap my left hand around my engorged cock and pull.
This is not about her. It is about control.
My strokes become faster, more urgent, my grip tightening as I chase the release that's been building since the moment I first laid eyes on her.
I can hear the harsh rasp of my own breath, the slap of skin on skin echoing off the tile walls. My muscles tense and my body coils like a spring as I pound into my fist.
The pressure mounts and my balls tighten, and with a guttural growl, I come hard, forcing release the same way I force everything else. Hard. Fast. Detached. When it passes, the tension is still there, just quieter.
That is the problem.
For a moment, I can do nothing but pant, my body shaking. The water washes away the evidence of my need, but the hunger, that primal, desperate hunger, remains. It’s a deep ache that I know won't be satisfied until I have her again.
I shut my eyes and draw a slow breath, trying to pull myself back into alignment. The image of her beneath me lingers longer than it should, persistent in a way I don’t like.
The lines blurred last night. Fuck.
I scrub my hands and arms under the hot spray, methodical, thorough, until my skin stings. The water does its job. It strips away the worst of it, even if it does not erase the memory entirely.
When I shut off the water, I stand there longer than necessary, letting the heat fade.
As I step out and reach for a towel, my shoulders tighten. My thoughts return where they belong. To the family. To the instability spreading since my father’s death. To the alliances I am still testing and the ones already fraying.
There is no margin for distraction.
What happened with Coco complicates things. I recognize that without indulging it. Crossing that line, even on my terms, risks clouding judgment I cannot afford to lose.
That will not happen again.
If it means adjusting who guards her, so be it. Vin will not support the change, but Laurent won’t know the difference. This is my call.
I drag the towel through my hair and wipe the fog from the mirror. The man looking back at me is steady enough. Tired, but focused.
That is all I need.
After dressing and shaving, I head for the kitchen. The thought occurs, unbidden, that she will need to eat. Or at least drink something. Logistics matter, even now.
I stop outside her door and tap lightly, keeping my voice even. I don’t open it, clearing my throat. “Do you drink coffee?”
There is a pause. Then, quietly, “Sure.”
“How do you take it?”
“I prefer a latte at a café in the French Quarter.”
My mouth tightens despite myself. “Very funny. Strong, black, with a splash of milk. That work?”
I mutter under my breath, heading for the kitchen. What am I, a goddamn barista? I try to do something decent, but it’s not enough. Nice to know.
“Sure,” she answers, louder this time, but her voice is muffled by the distance and the closed door separating us.
I almost make it to the coffee machine when a text comes in. I look to see it’s from Keller.
Luc’s situation is fixed. Rhodes is now looped in going forward and protocol is that 2 men on every dock shift are on board from here on out. Both verified. No single point of failure.
I don’t reply. There’s nothing to clarify.
I pull out the coffee grounds when an alert pings on my phone, stopping me cold. I glance down at the live feed from one of the deer cameras near the property line.
Two figures move through the trees just beyond the cabin, slipping through the underbrush with practiced care. They are not hikers. They are not lost.
I zoom in and catch a partial profile as one of them turns his head. A familiar scar cuts down his cheek.
Boudreaux. Low level, but unmistakable. I remember him from a meeting with my father and Laurent years ago.
I know this kind of movement. This is not a coincidence.
More motion flickers on the screen as the second man shifts closer, following a narrow deer trail, scanning the area like he expects resistance. He doesn’t look cautious. He looks prepared.
The intrusion needles at me, irritation sharpening into something colder.
This cabin is buried deep, off the books, known only to a handful of people I trust without question. There is no legitimate way for them to have found it. Especially this fast.
Which means someone talked.
I had planned to reveal myself on my terms. A controlled move, timed to land where it would do the most damage. Not this. Not now.
And yet here they are, already moving to reclaim her.
Not happening.
I swipe through the camera feeds, tracking their positions as they spread out. One angles toward the cabin. The other widens his arc, testing the tree line. When the closer man lifts his head again, there is no doubt who he is.
I turn away from the screen and open the hidden compartment behind the closet. The rifle comes free smoothly. The weight settles into my hands as I slide the magazine home and chamber a round.
The motion is practiced because my father insisted on it. Not because he wanted us violent, but because he understood what hesitation costs when someone decides to make a point. This is not improvisation. It is containment.
I move through the cabin without turning on a light and grab my boots by the door before stepping into them. Then pull on my coat.