Chapter 19
I cross the penthouse with purpose, already sorting logistics in my head—passport, weapons, timing—I feel her before I see her.
Her presence presses into my spine like a blade, familiar and infuriating.
I didn't expect her to still be awake. I definitely didn't expect her to still be wearing my shirt.
Like it has every encounter since she reappeared in my life, the sight of her hits me harder than it should, soft fabric hanging off her like she belongs here, like she never left.
Like the last ten years didn't happen. Heat coils low in my body, sharp and unwanted, my cock hardens, a visceral response I don't give permission to. Fuck.
"Where are you going?" she demands.
I don't slow. "Out."
"What are you doing?"
Packing.
I keep moving because if I stop, if I turn too soon, I'll remember the kiss.
The way her mouth fit mine like it never forgot.
The way my body betrayed me before my mind could catch up.
I'm angry at her. Angry because she kept my son from me.
Angry because she made that choice without me. Angry because I want her.
That's the real problem.
Desire rises, hard and unwelcome, tightening my control like a vice.
I hate it. Hate that she can still do this to me without trying.
Hate that my body reacts before my reason does.
I push into the bedroom and head straight for the closet.
If I let myself look at her too long, I'll either rip the shirt off her or lose my temper entirely. Or both.
Neither option is acceptable.
"You're not answering me," she snaps, following.
I reach the back wall and open the false panel. The lock disengages with a muted click, and the wall slides aside. Her breath catches. I don't look at her. I don't need to.
"Oh my God," she says. "Are those—are those grenades?"
"Yes."
I start selecting what I need, methodically and in control. The weapons steady me. They always have. Tools don't lie. They don't provoke. They don't look at you like you're both salvation and sin.
"You're going to war," she wagers.
"I'm going to get my son."
I turn just enough to catch her reflection in the mirror. Bare legs. My shirt. The echo of something domestic I never allowed myself to want. It makes my jaw tighten.
"Fuck," I mutter under my breath, not desire this time, but restraint. She needs clothes. Armor that isn't me.
"I'll have Max take you shopping downstairs," my voice is sharp. "You need to change."
Her eyes flash. "If you're going to get my son, I'm coming."
"No."
The word is final.
She steps closer, defiance radiating off her. "You don't get to decide that."
I turn fully then, letting my anger bleed into the air between us.
"Yes," I contradict her quietly. "I do."
"That's not fair."
"This isn't about fair."
Her voice drops. "You don't get to disappear again."
Again with again. The word lands deep, scraping something raw.
But I'm too angry to care or second-guess her words.
"I'm not disappearing, I'm going to get our son.
" That stills her, but I can't help but jab, "And your husband.
" That stops her completely. Because she understands what I'm willing to walk into to bring them back.
"You're not coming," I continue. "You stay alive. You dig. You don't become another variable I have to control."
"And if I don't listen?" she challenges.
I step closer, lowering my voice until it cuts. "Then you become a liability too. I don't carry liabilities into war."
Her jaw tightens. She hates this version of me. Too bad. It's the only one she'll get to see from now on. I turn away, reaching for the panel, for the familiar click of control—
"No."
The word snaps like a gunshot. I freeze.
"You don't get to do that," she contests. Her voice isn't loud, but it's worse for it, tight, shaking, pulled from somewhere deep. "You don't get to decide everything and walk away like the rest of us are just… debris."
I turn back slowly.
"What did you think this was?" I ask, my voice already rising. "A conversation? A negotiation?"
She doesn't answer fast enough. That's a mistake. I take one step toward her. Then another. The air changes. Even I feel it, the way the room tightens when I stop pretending restraint is a choice instead of a discipline.
"You're standing in my territory," I continue, voice dropping, gaining weight.
"In my house. Wearing my clothes. Telling me how this is going to go.
" Her chin lifts, defiant, but I see it, the flicker of awareness.
The moment she realizes I'm not the man she used to argue with. I am the man men fear.
"You think you get a vote because you're angry?
" I snap. "Because you're scared? Because you finally decided to stop being polite?
" I'm right in front of her now. Too close.
My shadow is swallowing hers. "This isn't a democracy," I add quietly.
"It's not a court. It's not your father's office, where words get work done.
" I lean down just enough to capture her gaze. "This is my world."
Her breath stutters. She doesn't step back. Brave. Stupid. Both.
"You don't get to raise your voice at me," I continue, low and lethal. "You don't get to issue demands. And you don't get to mistake my restraint for permission."
Her hands curl into fists at her sides. "You don't scare me."
The lie is immediate. Her posture says otherwise.
The way her shoulders tense. The way her breathing turns shallow.
The way her eyes track me instead of holding my gaze.
She's afraid. The realization lands hard, and to my surprise, it brings no satisfaction.
No triumph. Just something dark and uncomfortable twisting low in my chest. I don't like it. Not the fear itself. The reason for it.
I step closer anyway, crowding her space until the wall is at her back and there's nowhere left to retreat. I don't touch her—not yet—but the threat of it hums in the air between us, unmistakable. She swallows. There it is.
Naked fear.
And damn it, some weak, buried part of me wants to ease it.
To tell her she's safe. That I won't cross that line.
I crush that impulse instantly. She needs to be afraid of me.
After what she's done. After what she took.
I brace one arm against the wall beside her head, close enough that she can feel the vibration of it, close enough that escape is no longer an option.
"Don't insult me," I warn quietly. "I can see it. "
Her jaw tightens. She doesn't look away. Brave. Or reckless.
"Good," I continue, keeping my voice low and controlled. "Fear keeps you alive." My tone is menacing. "And right now, you need to remember exactly who you're standing in front of."
For a moment, everything is balanced on the edge of a blade: her defiance, my restraint, the history burning between us. Then I step back. Because if I don't, I'll either break something I can't fix or prove her fear right in a way I never intended.
"Change your clothes," I say flatly. "Max will take care of you."
I turn away before my anger finds another outlet. Some lines, once crossed, can't be uncrossed. And despite everything, I won't become that man. I straighten, letting the full weight of me settle back into place. Don. King. Executioner when necessary.