Chapter 16
North
The new prospects are giving me a fucking headache. Especially when rumor has it, one of them tried to hit up on Nyxa. Soul told me how proud she was of saying she’s my property. I know why it happened. They don’t see us much together and it’s my fault.
Those kiddos are rookies with loud mouths, twitchy hands, and too much testosterone for their own good.
I’ve been drilling rules into them for days, and it still feels like trying to tattoo discipline onto wet concrete.
One of them called Maeve a ‘sweet piece’ yesterday when she came for the last update on the sessions with Nyxa.
By the time I was done, he couldn’t sit straight.
The message was clear: in this club, you respect women, or you bleed.
Between that and the usual shit, the shipments, the security upgrades, the Wolves' latest drama, I’ve barely seen Nyxa.
And yeah, it eats at me, but the hood comes first.
She knows that. She’s seen it. Still, the guilt clings like smoke.
By the time I finally drag my ass back home, it’s past dinner time.
I climb the stairs and unlock the door, expecting silence. She’s usually lost in some book. Instead, I find her on the couch.
The glow from the TV paints her in soft gold. Her knees are tucked to her chest, a blanket draped over her legs. Her eyes are glued to the monitor.
I don’t move.
I just watch.
On the screen, a woman glides across an ice rink, elegant and fierce. She’s spinning, arms slicing the air like a warrior in silk. The announcer says her name: Ashley. Rock’s wife.
Nyxa’s lip trembles.
And something inside me splinters.
I clear my throat, stepping closer. Her head jerks toward me, surprise flashing in her expression before she wipes her cheeks and reaches for the remote, and her eyes—fuck. Red-rimmed. Wet.
“Didn’t know you were home,” she says, voice small.
“Didn’t mean to interrupt.”
She shrugs, trying for casual, but she can’t quite hide it. That ache. That longing.
I nod toward the screen. “She’s good.”
“She’s incredible,” Nyxa whispers, and her voice breaks around it.
I sit down beside her, not touching, but close enough she knows I’m there. “You ever think about it?” I ask.
“About what?”
“Opening your own dance school.”
She laughs, but there’s no joy in it but disbelief. “I don’t have qualifications. No training. Just a box of old trophies I barely remember winning that; I’m sure my mother threw away.”
I watch her face, the way she tries to shut it down before it opens too wide. “Bullshit,” I say. “You danced with those toddlers like it was the most natural thing in the world.”
She blinks.
“You were glowing, Firefly.”
Silence stretches between us.
“I don’t have the money,” she finally says. “And I’m not asking for yours.”
I don’t answer that. Not yet. Because it’s not about money. It’s about her finally wanting something for herself and me realizing how fucking much I want to give it to her.
She pulls the blanket tighter, like it can shield her from this conversation.
“I sent out some applications,” she says quietly, eyes still locked on the now-muted screen.
“A bakery in town. And a dance school downtown. The bakery turned me down, said I didn’t have experience.
The dance school didn’t even bother replying. ”
My jaw ticks. She never told me. Didn’t ask for help. Didn’t even want me to know.
I stare at her a moment longer, weighing every word. I know the bakeries in town. Know the owners. They’ve been under our protection since before I patched in. One call, one fucking visit, and she’d have had that job in a heartbeat.
But that’s not what this is about. It’s not rejection that’s eating her, it’s what she believes that rejection means.
“That pisses me off.”
She tenses, her shoulders pulling up. “You think I shouldn’t have applied or should’ve asked you to come with me?”
“No,” I reply. “I think it pisses me off that you didn’t think you could.”
She turns her head toward me, face unreadable. “It’s not about that. I didn’t want anyone giving me a job because I’m under the Saints'’ roof.”
Under me, I almost say. My cut, my name, my protection.
Instead, I nod once. “So it’s about independence.”
She hesitates, then nods.
I lean forward, elbows on my knees. “I’ve seen the change, Nyxa. You’ve been… brighter. Stronger. And I thought that was just you healing, but now I wonder if this place is starting to feel too tight for you.”
Her lips part, but she says nothing. The scared look on her face says she didn’t get what I'm trying to make her understand.
I don’t press.
Instead, I breathe out slow. “Then go get what you need.”
She shakes her head. “I’m not taking your money.”
Fuck.
I clench my jaw, stare at the blank TV. “I’m not offering a handout, Firefly. I’m giving you a fucking greenlight. You want the qualifications? Go get ’em. Want a job? Fine. I’ll stay out of it. But don’t think for a second I’m not gonna push you when I see you giving up before you’ve even tried.”
“I’m not giving up…”
“You are,” I interrupt. “You’re letting what you don’t have outweigh what you do. That’s not you. Not anymore.”
She swallows hard. I catch the way her fingers twist into the blanket.
“Why does it matter so much to you?” she whispers.
If I say it, if I even touch the truth of what she’s becoming to me, it’ll change everything.
And I’m not ready for that.
Not yet.
“Because I’ve watched you claw your way out of hell, Nyxa. If you’re reaching for something better, I’ll be damned if I let anyone, or anything, keep you from it.”
Her eyes shine again, but this time not with sorrow. With fire. With that fight I saw the first time she looked me in the eye and didn’t flinch.
“Okay,” she says. “I’ll look into the courses. But I’m paying for them. You got that?”
I smirk. “You’re stubborn.”
“You like that.”
I don’t deny it.
I reach over and brush her hair behind her ear, watching the stubborn set of her jaw. And even though I don’t say a word more—she knows. Because if she jumps, I’ll be the one making sure she lands.
“Get ready, we head to the BB in ten.”
“Okay, Prez.” She shoots me a grin over the shoulder.
Once we get there, Nyxa slips off to chat with Soul’s sister near the bar while I head toward the back. Music thrums low, the vibe easy and slow. It’s one of those nights where the weight of the patch doesn’t press so hard on my shoulders.
That’s when an idea hits. Let’s see where her insecurities stand. I text Eva but she looks puzzled at my request.
Eva: Too much booze, Prez?
Beatrice is leaning against the bar, sipping from a bottle of cider like she doesn’t have a care in the world. She’s one of the newer candies. Pretty, all legs and thick lashes, but not even a flicker of interest stirs in me.
I motion her over.
She grins and walks up, slow and sweet.
Out of the corner of my eye, I catch Eva behind the bar. She sees Beatrice approaching and immediately starts shaking her head like she’s about to witness a crime scene. My phone buzzes a second later.
Eva: You’re on your own. I like breathing.
I smirk.
Yeah, Nyxa's claws are sharp, if she ever decides to use them, but Eva’s exaggerating.
Mostly.
“Prez,” Beatrice purrs, eyes bright. “You called?”
I pat my thigh. “Sit.”
She does. One leg crosses over the other, one arm drapes over my shoulder. Nails painted deep red, perfume sharp enough to burn the air. Her fingertips brush my chest like she’s testing how far she can go without getting slapped down.
I feel nothing. Not a damn thing moves below my belt. Because it’s not her.
“How’s the hood treating you?” I ask, voice flat.
Her smile is slow. “Better now.” She taps my cut with a finger, lingering near my patch. “Feels… safer with you around.”
I keep my gaze steady on hers. “You need anything, you speak up. That clear?”
“Mm.” She tilts her head, nails tracing down my sternum like she’s sketching something there. “Not sure there’s anything I need that isn’t already right here.”
I glance toward the far end of the bar, and there she is.
Her smile dies the second she clocks Beatrice on my lap.
Her steps don’t speed up, but her eyes are fucking fire.
My firefly’s fuse is burning, and I don’t move Bea.
I want to see how far Nyxa’s gonna let this go before she makes her claim loud enough for the whole damn place to hear.
She stalks over, cool and deadly, her voice slicing through the air. “Move your ass off his lap, Bea.” There’s no room for negotiation in her tone. Heads spin toward us.
Beatrice practically levitates off me, scrambling away like she just realized she sat on a fucking landmine.
Nyxa steps in, eyes still locked on Beatrice’s back. She hops up on the counter next to me with zero grace and zero shame, then spreads her legs wide, planting her boots on the edge of my seat so I’ve got no choice but to settle between them.
She uses her thighs like armrests, completely owning the space.
Her chin tips down just enough to meet my eyes.
I’m fucking gone.
“Jealous?” I ask, loving the way she’s trying to act like she’s not fuming.
“Please.” She scoffs. “I’m just protecting what’s mine.”
The words hang in the air. She blinks, like they snuck past her lips before she could reel them back. I cup the back of her head, and crush my mouth to hers. It’s not gentle. It’s a claim.
Her lips part, hungry and wild, and the second her tongue tangles with mine, I feel it. The shift. The heat. Her thighs clamp tighter around me, and I swear her whole body buzzes against mine.
I pull back just enough to look her in the eye. “Your pussy throbbing for me, Firefly?” I whisper. “Greedy for my cock already?”
Her pupils dilate, her breath catches, and her body arches toward me without even thinking.
She doesn’t answer. So I press, smirking. “Say it.”
“Yes.” Her voice is barely a whisper, but it punches straight to my gut.
Fuck yes. That’s all I need.
I make her sit on my lap and get up, lifting her like she weighs nothing. She squeals, wrapping her arms around my neck, laughing, but I don’t stop.