Chapter 20
TWENTY
DALLEN
I don’t speak for several seconds after Stephen says the three words I’m not expecting.
He loves me.
Holy shit.
The words don’t echo so much as they detonate, scattering everything I think I understand about us, about him, about myself.
I’m in love with you.
They sit between us, heavy and exposed, impossible to take back, impossible to ignore.
My chest tightens, not with panic exactly, but with something far more dangerous—want.
Not simply for his body, not just for the heat and the way he looks at me like I’m the only thing mooring him to the world, but for the certainty in his voice.
The way he says it is like it’s already decided, like loving me is a fact rather than a choice. Or perhaps it’s both.
And that terrifies me.
I drag in a breath that feels too shallow, my pulse loud in my ears, my heart tripping over itself as I try to make sense of the man in front of me.
This is the same Stephen who just calmly admitted his family has killed to protect their own.
The same Stephen whose brother murdered a man and walked free.
The same Stephen who says he’d do it again if someone threatens the people he loves.
And now he’s telling me he loves me, like it’s a gift instead of a loaded weapon.
“I don’t…” My voice cracks, and I stop, pressing my lips together as I try again. “Stephen, I don’t know what to do with that.” And I don’t. I’m not sure of anything right now. My mind is a kaleidoscope of thoughts, swirling into one giant mess.
He doesn’t move. He doesn’t reach for me.
He watches, eyes dark and intent, like he’s bracing for impact.
That restraint makes it worse. If he touched me right now, I might fold.
Might let the fear dissolve into something simpler, something physical.
But he doesn’t, and I’m left standing in the wreckage of my own thoughts.
But love?
That admission isn’t supposed to feel like this.
It’s supposed to be safe. Familiar. Predictable.
Love is supposed to look like my parents—rules and structure and knowing exactly where you stand.
It’s not supposed to come wrapped in violence and secrets and men who talk about eliminating problems like it’s a business strategy.
And yet, when I look at Stephen, all I can think about is how alive I feel around him, how he sees me, how he doesn’t want to soften me or shield me from myself.
How he wants me fierce and defiant and standing in his space as if I belong there.
“I don’t know if what I feel is love,” I admit finally, the truth scraping its way out of me. “I know I want you. I know I don’t want to stop seeing you, no matter how everyone around me is telling me to run. But love?” I shake my head slowly. “That feels…too big. Too soon.”
Something flickers across his face—disappointment, maybe, or pain—but he doesn’t interrupt. He lets me speak, lets me find my footing, and that alone tells me he’s comfortable with his admission, no matter how uncomfortable it makes me.
“I’ve spent my whole life believing in law and order.
” I start pacing again because standing still feels impossible.
I need to move, to work through everything that’s being said.
“In rules. In consequences. In the idea that no one gets to decide who lives or dies just because they think they’re justified.
And now you’re asking me to reconcile that with the fact that the man I’m sleeping with—” I swallow hard.
“—the man I care about, stands outside of all of that at times, and I need to disregard it. That his family defends themselves to the death, not figuratively, but literally.”
“I’m not asking you to approve of it or be involved in anything that may happen without your knowledge,” he says quietly. “But I do need you to know who you’re sleeping next to and what baggage I bring.”
“How am I supposed to live with this information and not respond?” I shoot back, facing him.
“It’s not a small thing to ingest. Your life choices and those of your family are not something I can ignore because the sex is good or because you make me feel something I haven’t felt before. Not with anyone…”
He nods, a muscle working on his temple. “I know.”
His honesty undoes me more than anyone else’s.
He’s not trying to charm me or talk his way out of it.
He’s standing in the truth of who he is and letting me decide whether I can survive loving him.
And the awful, inconvenient truth is that I don’t want to walk away.
Every rational part of me says I should.
My father’s voice echoes in my head, warning me about men like him, about the cost of standing too close to power and violence.
Two traits that should never coexist, while another voice—quieter, more insistent—keeps asking me how I’m supposed to give up something that feels this real.
“I’m scared,” I admit. “Not just of your family or the Romeros or what any of this could do to my career. I’m scared of how much I want you. Of how easy it would be to let you pull me into your world and damn everything that’s come before.”
Stephen finally moves, just a step closer, careful, like he’s approaching a wild thing.
“I don’t want to own you,” he says, and I almost laugh at the irony given everything he’s said and done during our time together.
Of course, he wants to own me. He wants me for himself, and I’m pretty sure he’d steal me away from everything I’ve ever known if he could.
“I want you to choose me. Even if that choice scares you.”
I close my eyes for a second, the weight of that settling deep in my chest. Choosing him doesn’t just mean choosing a man.
It means choosing uncertainty. Risk. A life where danger isn’t hypothetical.
And yet, when I imagine walking away—going back to clean lines and safe choices and men my parents would approve of—it feels like a lie.
Like shrinking myself to fit a version of happiness that’s never quite enough.
Like choosing a life without love.
“I don’t want to stop seeing you,” I say. “Even knowing everything you’ve told me. Even knowing what risk your name carries.”
He lets out a slow, relieved breath, like he’s been holding it. “That’s all I need to hear.”
“It doesn’t mean I accept everything,” I add quickly. “It doesn’t mean I’m okay with violence or secrecy or being kept in the dark. If this continues—” I gesture between us, “—I need honesty. Real honesty. No half truths.”
“You’ll get it,” he says without hesitation.
“And I need you to try all legal avenues first before you go mad and start acting all mafia on me.” I should stop here.
Should put distance between us and let my head catch up to my heart.
Instead, I feel myself drifting closer, drawn by the heat of him, the gravity he seems to exert without even trying.
The tension between us shifts, thickens, turning from sharp edges into something heavier, slower, more dangerous.
“I don’t know where this leads,” I whisper.
Neither does he. I can see it in his eyes. The fear of losing me wars with something darker, possessive and feral, and for the first time, I understand that loving Stephen means standing right at the edge of that line with him.
He lifts a hand, stopping just short of touching my face, giving me the chance to pull away. I don’t. My skin hums where he almost brushes me, my body responding long before my mind can catch up.
I don’t know if the madness he makes me feel will ever go away, but right now I know I can’t lose what we have. I cannot lose him either.
“I need you to know,” I say, my voice barely steady, “that wanting you doesn’t mean I’ll abandon who I am. I won’t stop being a lawyer. I won’t stop believing in the law or trying to make you see that my way is the right way to move through life.”
“I wouldn’t want you to,” he murmurs. “I want all of you. Even the parts that challenge me. We all try to be better men, Dallen, but old habits are hard to break. Harder still when some don’t play by the rules society lives by.”
That’s what breaks the last of my resistance.
Not the words themselves, but the way he says them, like he understands precisely what he’s asking of me and is willing to pay the price.
I step into him, closing the space between us, my hands resting against his chest, feeling the steady beat of his heart beneath my palms.
I’m not in love. Not yet. But I know this much with brutal clarity: I’m not walking away.
And when his hands finally settle on my hips, firm and warm and grounding, when his forehead dips to rest against mine, I know I’m choosing danger and choosing desire and choosing a man who could ruin me just as easily as he could protect me.
And I let him.
I wake in Stephen's bed, my legs tangled about the sheets.
For a moment, I'm not sure where I am, before reality comes crashing down around my shoulders. Not regret—just the weight of knowing I’m crossing a line I can never uncross.
I made a choice today, one that I know my parents would disapprove of, and perhaps my old self as well.
The girl who follows is gone. I can't live in the past, let fears for the unknown, for possibilities that may never come true, dictate my life.
Life is for the living, and I want to see where my relationship with Stephen can go, even if it means stepping into something dangerous, even if it changes me forever.
He’s a bad boy with a dark past and possibly a shady future, but one who I know is trying to right the wrongs of his family's history and correct his own urges that lead him astray.
And maybe that struggle is what draws me to him most—the effort, the restraint, the cost written all over him.
His bloodied hands and bruised jaw from his fight tonight are just one example.
I frown, realizing that I haven’t asked him whom he fought. Is it some random guy in a bar or someone he knows? Someone from the world he warns me about? Someone who reminds me how real the danger is?
A knot forms in my stomach, and I turn my head to watch him. He’s asleep on his back, one arm lazily lying above his head. He looks so untouchable, and in truth, I don’t feel like I have the right to lie next to someone who looks like a god. Or maybe I don’t feel worthy of how fiercely he wants me.
Yes, I may be a little hooked on his deadly appearance, but damn, he makes me crave. All. The. Damn. Time. Wanting him feels reckless—and I’ve never been impetuous before.
I drink in the sight of his chest, his chiseled abdomen, his hip, and lower still.
The sheet isn’t covering him, and his cock lies flaccid on his leg.
I roll onto my side and reach out, running one finger along his dick, watching it as it twitches, even in sleep.
This isn’t just desire—it’s curiosity, power, choice.
Before I can stop myself, I kneel beside him and clasp his manhood. He hardens in my hands, and I stroke him, watching with amazement how much he grows. He’s so very clever with his appendage, and oh boy, does he know how to use it… And I want to learn him the way he’s learned me.
“Are you going to keep observing my dick or are you going to put that pretty little mouth of yours on me and make me come?”
I jump at Stephen’s words, having not realized that he’s awake. Heat kisses my chest, and I’m glad for the darkness of the room so he can’t see my embarrassment. Or how pleased I am that I do this to him. “Do you want me to put your dick in my mouth?”
I lick my lips, unable to hide my smile when he growls a response. “You know I do.”
“Well then, I'd better not disappoint you.” I bend down, and for the first time in my life, I suck a man’s dick.
He’s like velvet, yet with a rod of steel that presses down my throat.
I suck him, use my tongue to tease while I attempt to pretend to be an expert.
I’m not confident—but I’m willing. And that feels just as intoxicating.
“That’s it, take all of me. Suck my dick and be a good girl.” His fingers tangle into my hair, and he guides me, presses me down. His cock touches the back of my throat, and I try not to gag, but he’s so big. And instead of fear, there’s trust—complete and reckless.
“Yeah, that’s it, baby. Let me fuck your face.”
His words make liquid heat pool at my core. I want him, I want to please him. I want him to come in my mouth so I can taste him. I want to belong here, even if I don’t know what that costs yet. “Do you like it?” I manage, licking the end of his rod while I wait for an answer.
He growls, his eyes darkening with hunger. “Yes.”
I smile. “Good. I aim to please.” Not because I have to—but because I choose to.
Without warning, he’s up, and before I can protest, he pins me facedown on the bed. He clasps my arm, holding it against my back. With my ass up in the air, he thrusts into me. I scream at his sudden, sweet intrusion. Shock turns instantly into need.
“Stephen,” I moan into the sheets as he relentlessly takes me. I feel him come down over me, never once losing his stride. “You like me owning you, taking you, marking you mine.”
I can’t deny it, not now, not after choosing him. I do like it, the secretive part of me that would never admit to wanting a man—any man—to have so much control, yet I allow Stephen to. Because he doesn’t take—I give.
I cannot say why. Lust? Perhaps I am in love with him after all. Maybe I’m deluding myself into believing I’m not when he has already professed to be. Maybe love doesn’t arrive gently—it crashes.
“I love you fucking me, yes.”
He growls against my ear, and I shiver, the first tremors of my release spiraling through me. “You love more than my cock stretching your sweet, tight pussy.”
I close my eyes, fighting not to respond and failing yet again. “I do. I love it. Fuck me. Fuck me hard.” Let me forget everything else, just for now.
He gives me what I want, and I come. My orgasm rips through me, stealing me of my senses, sense of self, and place. I’m lost in the pure bliss he brings me. His thrusts are relentless, prolonging my release.
“Dallen…” He moans my name, his body stilling as he joins me.
We slump onto the bed, lost in each other.
Stephen pulls me into his side, kisses the top of my head as I try to gain my breath.
His heart thumps loud under my ear, and I listen, hold him close as I allow everything that I know about this man, about myself, to settle around us.
Nothing feels simple anymore—but it feels real.
“I’m never letting you go. You’re mine now, Dallen.”
I kiss his chest and snuggle him tighter. The words should frighten me. Instead, they feel like shelter. “You’re mine too.”