32. Angel
The blueprints for the farmhouse are currently rolled up on the small desk in our room, a promise of a life I never thought I’d be allowed to have.
Two weeks ago, sitting across from the architect, I watched Damien’s face as he described the security features while I described the mudroom and the floor-to-ceiling windows that would let the light in.
He didn’t argue with a single one of my choices. He just watched me with that silent, intense pride, as if seeing me happy was the only payment he required.
The clubhouse is bustling today. It’s felt different since Oliver arrived.
I catch him sometimes in the common room, his head bent over a sketch alongside Stencil.
Stencil is Ollie’s age and has a quiet, observant energy that seems to ground him.
Between Stencil’s friendship and the constant updates from Cyber and Slayer—who have confirmed that the UK case is officially cold—Oliver is finally starting to breathe.
He’s even started helping dad in the infirmary, his med-school training making him an asset rather than a liability.
I’m sitting on the edge of the bed, tracing the Property Of Ghost rocker on my vest, when the door clicks open.
Damien walks in, the air in the room instantly shifting. He’s already dressed for the night—dark jeans, heavy boots, and his black leather vest over a t-shirt that clings to his frame. He’s holding a small, velvet-lined box.
“Open it,” he says, his voice a low command.
I take the box, my fingers trembling slightly. Inside is a masterpiece of dark elegance. It’s a collar—thick, supple black leather with a polished silver plate on the front. Engraved in a sharp, bold script is a single word: GHOST.
He reaches out, taking it from the box. I tilt my head back instinctively, exposing the line of my throat to him.
His fingers are cool against my skin as he wraps the leather around my neck, the click of the buckle echoing in the quiet room.
He leans down, his lips brushing against my ear, his breath hot and damp.
“We’re going to Onyx tonight,” he whispers. “I’m going to show every person in that club exactly who you belong to. And once I’ve shown you off, I’m going to take you to a private room and remind you why you’re never going to need another man’s touch for the rest of your life.”
I involuntarily squeeze my thighs together, a soft whimper catching in my throat.
“Yes, Sir,” I breathe.
The neon sign for Onyx pulses like a heartbeat against the dark California sky. The roar of Damien’s Harley vibrates through my bones as we pull into the VIP lot. I’m wearing a short leather skirt that barely skims my thighs, a lace crop top, and my property cut over it all.
Damien kills the engine and dismounts in one fluid motion. He reaches out and catches my hand, his grip possessive and firm. We walk through the heavy steel doors, the thumping bass of the music hitting us like a wall of sound.
The club is a haze of blue and purple light, the scent of expensive gin and high-grade leather thick in the air. We head toward the VIP section, toward the booth that has belonged to Damien for years.
Bear is already there, sprawling across the leather cushions with a drink in one hand. Beside him sits a prospect, Runner—a kid with eager eyes and a nervous energy.
When we approach, Bear’s eyes widen, and a massive, toothy grin breaks across his face. “Well, look at this. You two finally decided to grace us with your presence.”
Runner, however, doesn’t say a word. He’s staring at me, his gaze traveling from my boots up to the curve of my hips, then lingering on the lace of my top. He’s practically drooling, his mouth hanging open in a way that is as insulting as it is transparent.
I feel the shift in Damien before I hear it. The air around him turns arctic. He doesn’t just step in front of me; he looms over the table like a reaper.
“Runner,” Damien’s voice is a low, lethal snarl that cuts through the music. “If you don’t take your eyes off my wife in the next three seconds, I’m going to peel them out of your head and feed them to you. Do we have an understanding, or do I need to make it a club matter?”
Runner turns pale, his chair scraping back as he nearly trips over himself to look at the floor. “Sorry, Ghost. I didn’t—I wasn’t—”
“Get out of here,” Damien grunts.
Bear just laughs, leaning back. “Easy, Ghost. The kid’s just got eyes. Though I wouldn’t blame you for burying him; she looks like a goddamn vision tonight.”
I offer Bear a small, confident smile, but before I can speak, a flash of blonde hair catches my peripheral vision. A woman in a skin-tight red dress slides up to Damien’s other side, her hand reaching out to touch his bicep.
“Ghost,” she coos, her voice dripping with artificial sweetness. “It’s been months. I thought you’d forgotten where we were. I’ve missed you.”
Damien doesn’t even look at her. He rolls his eyes, his expression one of pure boredom. He starts to shift away, but I’m faster.
I step forward, closing the distance between me and the blonde. I’m shorter than her, but in this moment, I feel ten feet tall. I look her dead in the eye with a cold, regal disdain that makes her hand drop from my husband’s arm.
“Since you’re clearly struggling to read, let me help you.” I say, my voice steady and sharp as a blade. “This cut says ‘Property of Ghost.’ That collar says ‘Ghost.’ This man is mine. Touch him again, and I will personally break every bone in your hand. Clear?”
The girl pales, her mouth opening and closing like a fish. She looks at Damien, hoping for a laugh or a dismissal, but he’s just watching me with a look of pure, unadulterated heat.
“You heard her,” Damien rumbles. “Get lost.”
She scrambles away, disappearing into the crowd like a shadow.
Damien turns to me, his pupils so blown out they’ve swallowed the grey of his eyes. He looks hungry.
“You’re a menace, Angel,” he growls, his hand sliding to the back of my neck, his thumb stroking the leather of the collar.
He grabs my hand and pulls me toward the private rooms, his pace fast and purposeful. He leads me into a room at the very end of the corridor—a space of dark wood, heavy velvet, and the faint scent of cedar. He shuts the door and locks it, the heavy thud of the bolt echoing my racing heart.
He turns me around, pinning me against the door. His hands are everywhere, mapping my body through the leather and lace.
“I need a safe word,” he rasps, his forehead leaning against mine. “We’re doing this my way tonight, Angel.”
I look up at him, my hands reaching up to grip his wrists. “No safe words, Damien.”
He narrows his eyes, his grip tightening. “Don’t play, baby. You know the rules. Especially after everything—”
“I trust you,” I interrupt, my voice firm. “I don’t need a safe word because I know you won’t break me. I need you to be yourself. I need to feel you, all of you. No safety nets. Just us.”
He stares at me for a long beat, his chest heaving.
“Fine,” he whispers, his voice dropping into a register that makes my knees weak. “No safe words.”
He leans down, his mouth finding mine in a kiss that’s hard, deep, and desperate. His hands move to my throat, his thumbs tracing the silver plate on the collar.
“I’m going to erase him, Angel,” he mutters against my lips, his voice thick with a dark, protective vow. “I’m going to mark you so deep, that there won’t be a single shadow of London left in your mind. By the time we leave this room, the only name you’ll remember how to scream is mine.”
“Do it,” I breathe, arching my back as he lifts me, my legs locking around his waist.
The club music is a distant thrum, a world away. Here, in the dark, there is only the weight of the leather, the heat of the man I love, and the beautiful, terrifying certainty that I am exactly where I belong. I am his. And tonight, he’s going to make sure I never forget it.