33. Atticus
Atticus
After our little session with Phoenix, it takes longer than usual for me to put my head back on straight.
Usually, I’ll take any excuse not to do aftercare.
Not that I’ve ever refused to take care of a scene partner afterward—but if she was going to make an excuse to run, I wasn’t going to fucking stop her.
I’ve seen women get that wide-eyed look, the one that means they’re already halfway to the door. I’ve let them go.
Hell, sometimes I’ve encouraged it. Less work for me.
So why does not having Phoenix in my arms right now—after one of the most charged scenes I’ve ever been part of—bother me so damn much?
The absence feels like a phantom limb. I can still sense her weight, her breath, the tremble in her thighs when she was trying to hold herself together. My fingers twitch at the memory, like they’re still wrapped around her hips.
I’ve heard people say aftercare is just as much for the dom as it is for the sub. I always thought that was complete bullshit—something weak men tell themselves so they can pretend the caretaking is for them. I’ve laughed in more than one person’s face over it.
Now I’m not laughing. Now I wonder if there’s some truth to it, because there’s a hollowness in my chest that didn’t used to be there after a scene.
Soon, I’m going to have to play with Phoenix on my own. No distractions. No one else touching her. Just me, start to finish. I want to see what she looks like after I’ve taken her apart and put her back together again, and I want to be the one to do that.
But for now, there are other things that need my attention.
I head into my room, needing to reset with my post-scene ritual .
The shower is already running before my shirt hits the floor.
Steam clouds the mirror and fogs the glass door, curling around me like a living thing.
I step into the scalding spray, tilting my head back until it burns enough to feel clean.
The water bites at my skin, but that’s the point—it strips away everything that clings, seen and unseen.
This isn’t about Phoenix. She isn’t dirty.
She’s nothing like the other women we’ve brought up here—nothing like the kind who leave me feeling the need to sterilize myself after fucking them.
This is about control. About returning to baseline.
About making sure that what just happened doesn’t leave a mark on me that I didn’t choose.
I scrub every inch of my body with a boar-bristle brush until my skin is flushed and tender. I like the sting—it reminds me I’m still in charge of what I feel. When I’m satisfied, I move to skincare: rich, dense creams that smell of tobacco, vanilla, leather. Each scent settling over me like armor.
When I’m done, I slide into Tom Ford boxers, tailored black slacks, a crisp white shirt. Cufflinks. Watch. The weight of them grounds me. I finish with Tom Ford Noir Extreme cologne, the final seal on the persona .
Being impeccably dressed at all times isn’t just preference—it’s strategy. The man who looks like he’s in control is in control.
I cross into the walk-in closet I’ve turned into a home office. Black glass desk. Four-monitor rig—smaller than what I’m used to, but it does the job. My leather executive chair creaks as I sit, pulling the laptop toward me.
I work in silence for hours, scanning reports, financial trails, chatter from places that require the right kind of access.
Three hours in, I hit a roadblock so infuriating I take off my shoe and hurl it across the bedroom.
It hits the drywall with a dull thud, leaving a dent.
I’m not in the “official” office, so it doesn’t matter.
I’ll have it patched tomorrow. By the weekend, there won’t be any sign I lost control, even for a second.
I draw in a slow breath through my nose, counting to five. In my head, the sound of my belt hitting Phoenix’s skin repeats in perfect rhythm. Next time, it’ll have to be to ten, so I can record each one in my mind and call them up whenever I need to steady myself.
Before I leave to update the others, I make a call .
The line clicks twice before a man answers, voice rough and amused. “Didn’t expect to hear from you, little Titan.”
“You should have,” I say evenly, shoving my glasses further up the bridge of my nose. “I’m calling about the Jones debt. I’ll take it. In full.”
There’s a pause, then a low chuckle. “You’ll take it? You mean you’ll pay it.”
“I’ll pay double. Cash. Today. And you’ll never go near her again.”
“You think this is about money now?” The smile in his voice curdles into something darker. “It was. Until your boy got a little too fucking enthusiastic with my man.”
“He put his hands on her. He deserved it.”
“Mm. Yeah, well, We don’t need to argue about whys and wherefores. The fact is, it happened. And it’s a problem.”
I start to reply but he cuts me off, ah-ah-ahhing until I fall silent.
“Normally I could take a pass, accept the payment of the debt and the extra as enough. I don’t take things like that too personal. Not exactly. But he was my wife’s cousin, see. And that changes the balance. Money’s clean. But when it’s family, blood’s cleaner.”
My grip tightens on the phone. “You don’t touch her.”
“She’s already marked, Wynn. Question is whether it’s by you…or by us.”
The call ends without a goodbye. I stare at the dead line, jaw locked.
Fuck.
The others need to know what I’ve found.
I step into the living room. Con is stretched out on the couch, Phoenix draped over him, her bare skin hidden under a towel. She’s asleep, lips parted, hair spilling across his chest. He scrolls idly on his phone, one arm curled protectively around her.
It shouldn’t bother me. But it does.
“We have a problem,” I say, taking off my glasses and pinching the bridge of my nose to ease the tension building behind my eyes .
“I fail to see how we could possibly have a problem right now.” Con doesn’t look up.
“Is it about the staff?” Maverick asks as he walks in with a ham sandwich in hand. Is he ever not eating?
“Or is it about the asshole I stabbed?” Storm drops into a recliner, eyes narrowing. He’s looser than usual. Not relaxed exactly, but less coiled. It’s unsettling.
“I’ve heard nothing from the hospitals,” I say, answering Storm first. “If he bled out, he’s someone else’s problem. More likely, his boss cleaned it up for us. There’s no world where it comes back to you. Or he’s walking around, and you can try again later.”
Storm narrows his eyes but stays quiet.
I scrub the back of my neck with my palm.
“There is something happening with the staff, but I still think most of them are just quitting. The only thing I’ve found are wild conspiracy theories about us fucking them and murdering them.
Apparently, some think Storm keeps a collection of their heads in a walk-in freezer, or Maverick fucks them so hard they slam their skulls into the headboard until they get concussions and die. ”
Storm looks unamused. Maverick looks like he’s about to choke on his sandwich from laughing.
Con smirks but keeps quiet, probably so he doesn’t wake Phoenix.
“So what’s the problem?” Con asks.
“The staff gossip is a problem, but I’m more concerned about Phoenix’s debt.”
That gets their attention. Storm straightens slightly. Maverick stops chewing.
I lean against the back of a chair. “I looked into the men her father owes. It’s not as low-rent an operation as I’d hoped.”
“So what?” Con rolls his eyes. “We’ll pay it and set her free. It’s not that big?—”
I hold up a hand, my jaw tightening. “Don’t you think if it were that easy, I’d have done it already? I called them. Offered double to erase her debt and walk away. They refused.”
“What do you mean, they refused?” Maverick’s voice sharpens, sandwich forgotten on the table.
“They don’t want money anymore. ”
“What else could they possibly want?” Con asks, sitting up a little, careful not to jostle Phoenix.
I meet Storm’s gaze. “Thanks to your ‘enthusiasm,’ they want blood.”
Storm doesn’t flinch. “Whose?”
“They want blood,” I repeat, dragging my fingers through my hair and ruining the slicked-back strands. “Specifically…her blood.”
The room goes still. Con’s arm tightens reflexively around Phoenix. Maverick’s jaw ticks. Storm’s fingers drum once on the arm of the chair, slow and deliberate.
“Over a lot of their dead bodies,” Storm whispers.