Chapter 24 #2
Kenny turned the bottle in his hand, then looked up. “This is a good gift.”
Silas smirked. “I give good gifts.”
Willow bit her lip on a grin and adjusted her perch on the ottoman as she watched Silas return to the tree for a longer, flatter box. This one he handed to Boone, who didn’t even bother pretending to wait.
The wrapping fell away quickly, and he pulled the lid off a white box to reveal a thick, heavy leather weight belt in a charcoal-gray finish, lined in black suede with subtle silver embroidery at the edges.
Boone let out a low breath. “Damn. This company only does custom. You had this made for me?”
“Extra width for tall motherfuckers,” Silas said. “Buckle hardware is titanium. Supposed to last a lifetime.”
Boone turned it over, running his hand across the smooth leather. “This is fucking gorgeous.”
Silas shrugged. “You’re the only person I know who can deadlift a snowplow. Figured you should have gear that fits.”
Silas went for the final box and brought it to her. It was much smaller, wrapped in matte black with a satin silver ribbon. He handed it to her, but instead of stepping back, he crouched down and watched her with an infuriating half-smile.
She unwrapped the box, then lifted the lid and pulled a coffee mug out.
It was all metal, double-walled and black, with a thick, industrial-looking handle, which on second glance she realized was an industrial C-clamp, and the curve of the heavy metal had been smoothed and integrated into the mug’s form, sturdy and cold against her fingers.
Nestled beneath it, on black velvet, lay a necklace — a delicate chain of tiny linked steel segments, and from it hung a lightning bolt pendant.
“I had the screw from the clamp made into the pendant,” he said. “It’s a lightning bolt because if the storm hadn’t hit, we might not have met you.”
Her breath caught and her heart sped. “It’s the same clamp, Sir? From the cabin?”
He nodded. “Yes. I put it in my duffel instead of tossing it back into the toolbox, and one of our regulars is a metalsmith.”
She traced the lightning bolt and felt the ghost pain from the clamp on her thigh.
“You remember where that clamp bit you?” he asked softly.
A flush crept up her neck, but she nodded.
“You’ll remember it with your coffee now. Every morning.”
He plucked a small black velvet pouch from his pocket and dropped it into her palm. She opened it to find a pair of rhinestone-encrusted nipple clamps, delicate and elegant, but wicked-looking all the same.
“These did not cost a hundred bucks.” He tilted his head. “Maybe you should model them for the bitchy saleswoman.”
Willow leaned forward to give him a peck on the lips. “Thank you for my mug and pendant, Sir, and for the thought that went into them. I love you, even if you are kind of a jerk sometimes.”
“You love me, in part, because I’m an evil sadist, not in spite of it, and I love you, in part, because you fight so hard to accept what I do to you, even when there’s no way anyone can be expected to.”
“She didn’t thank you for the nipple clamps,” Boone said.
Silas shrugged. “She will the next time I have her strapped down in the playroom.”
Kenny glanced at Boone. “You’re up.”
Boone rolled his shoulders and got to his feet. “Guess I’ll keep it simple.”
He walked behind the sofa and came out with a box big enough for a recliner. He walked it to Kenny, settled it onto the floor, and stepped back.
Kenny eyed the box as if it might be full of snakes, ripped the paper off in one long pull, and said, “Damn, Boone. Double subwoofers, four surround sound three-sixty units, and a soundbar. We’ll feel the motherfucking explosions.”
Boone grunted. “I bought wall mounts for the four speakers. All the hardware. Ready to install whenever you’re ready.”
“Fuck yes,” Kenny muttered, lifting one of the speakers with reverence. “Movie nights are going to hit.”
Willow smothered a laugh. Men really are just a step above boys when it comes to fun toys.
Boone was already at Silas’s side, offering a long leather case. Silas opened it and went utterly still.
The braided leather whip lay coiled in a gentle spiral — jet black, with a wine-red fall and a handle capped in polished silver.
Silas reached out and lifted the handle like it was a treasure. “Kangaroo?”
Boone nodded. “Hand-dyed, hand braided. The pouch has a wrap cloth, oiling kit, and conditioning balm.”
Boone looked at the logo on the tag attached to it and both eyebrows lifted. “Made by a man who’s been doing it for thirty years. Fuck, Boone. This is a piece of art.”
“Custom handled to your grip length, which I got by measuring a handprint you left on the bondage table before our fucktoy had a chance to clean it off. Balanced for either speed or pain, depending on how you use your wrist.”
Silas tested the weight. Turned away from everyone and let it fly. “Once again, Merry Fucking Christmas to me. Thank you.”
And then Boone went behind the sofa again, this time coming out with something large and flat. Maybe a foot and a half by two feet, but only a few inches thick. It was wrapped in gold paper with a moss-green ribbon.
He walked to her, propped it on the ottoman in front of her.
“Your turn.”
Willow blinked, surprised by the gentleness in his voice. She unwrapped it carefully and gasped.
The painting was soft and luminous. Her hawk form perched on the crook of her favorite tree limb, feathers backlit by dappled light, every detail rendered with breathtaking accuracy. It was framed in rustic wood, matted in pale cream.
And it was unmistakably her hawk, in her tree.
She looked at him, speechless.
“I asked our resident pack artist to show me all the pictures she’d taken of you. This one struck me the most, so I paid her to paint it.”
“It’s perfect,” she whispered, eyes stinging. “I love you, Sir. Thank you.”
He nodded, reached out, and squeezed her knee. “You’re our hawk. Wanted to honor that.”
Her throat thickened, and for once, she didn’t have words.
“Your turn next, sweetheart,” Kenny said softly.
She took a steadying breath, preparing to give her own gifts.
She stood, walked to the tree, picked up the first wrapped box, and carried it to Kenny. He cocked a brow but accepted it, setting it on his lap and peeling the paper away with slow curiosity.
He opened the lid and saw the massive, flat-black smartwatch that looked like it’d been designed for combat zones. Rugged. Heavy. Capable of surviving a war.
He looked at the box, looked at the watch. “This the one that sends texts, tracks vitals, works off-grid, and refuses to die?”
“Yeah. Military-grade,” she said, trying not to sound nervous. “If you break it, they replace it. Tracks every health stat imaginable, has solar charging, GPS, barometric altimeter, two-way texting, and a bunch of other stuff, Sir. I figured it could keep up with you.”
Kenny stared at the watch for a beat longer, then looked up with a smile. “Thank you, little hawk. This is great.” He gave her a quick kiss. “This deserves a good girl along with the thank you.”
Relief bloomed in her chest.
Then she handed him the green and red gift bag with green tissue. “There’s more.”
He pulled out the coffee mug first: KING OF THE CASTLE. He eyed it, then her, looked back to the mug, and turned it so the other men could see.
Silas laughed, and Boone said, “Oh, now you’ll be insufferable.”
Silas leaned in, mock serious. “You know this means we all have to start calling you Your Majesty now, right?”
Kenny pulled the heavy-duty travel mug out next and said, “Damned straight I am,” before he turned it to the other men so they could read: KING OF EVERYTHING.
“Oh, someone is sucking up big time,” Silas said, and Willow only smiled at him.
Kenny gave her another kiss, and she said, “There’s one more thing in the bag, Sir.”
He looked in, looked back to her, and then reached in to pull the t-shirt out and let it unfold.
The others saw it before he did, and both Boone and Silas laughed when they read: THE CORRECT ANSWER IS YES SIR.
Kenny turned it around to read it, and he chuckled. “Once again, damned straight it is.”
Boone snorted. “Looks like somebody’s finally embracing his inner dictator.”
Willow grinned. “But only if it’s said with the proper respect.”
Boone raised a brow, and she quickly added, “Sirs.”
Kenny folded the shirt with exaggerated care. “I might need this in different colors.”
He met her gaze. “I love you, and I’m so glad we’re all a family. Now, give Silas his gift, little hawk.”
She turned to Silas and handed him a large box, a foot by a foot and a half, though only seven inches tall, and he eyed her with suspicion.
“Too big to be another whip. A paddle, maybe?”
She felt her face go hot. How did he know?
He opened it, paused, and let out a low hum of appreciation.
“Oh wow. This outfit keeps total control, so they know it’s organic. Damn, Willow. Thank you.”
Kenny leaned over. “Spices?”
Silas nodded. “Premium spices.”
Kenny lifted a brow and looked at her, and she told Silas, “I asked Kenny if he’ll expand the kitchen garden, if I buy the supplies, so I can grow the herbs you use most: chives, rosemary, basil, parsley, sage, oregano. You already use the peppers I grow, Sir, so it makes sense.”
Silas’s gaze held hers for a beat longer than necessary. “Thoughtful and practical. My favorite combination.”
She swallowed. “I kind of don’t want to point this out after your other two gifts, but there’s something under the spices, Sir.”
He lifted the box of spices out of the outer box and let out something close to a guffaw.
She’d seen a cutting board with a handle, shaped like a paddle, and she’d bought it and had wording charred into the top part, away from where he’d be chopping. It said: CHOP. SLICE. SPANK.
“Oh, my darling little paintoy, this will absolutely be put to use in the kitchen.”
She flushed and handed him his gift bag.
Silas pulled out the coffee mug first: I RUB BUTTS AND PULL PORK.