Chapter 10 Vince #2
I sat up. “That one’s got blood on it.”
She made a face. “Oh my God. Do you own clothes that don’t have blood on them?”
“Not really.” I shrugged. “Occupational hazard.”
She shook her head. “You have a problem.” She turned slightly, scanning the room. “Where are your clean T-shirts? I won’t be that girl who just goes through your wardrobe.” She paused. “Well… not while you’re still here.”
She winked.
My brain short-circuited. She was topless, wearing only the tiniest pair of panties I’d ever seen, holding a blood-stained shirt like it was her prize.
I pointed vaguely toward the wardrobe. “Top drawer. Left. Just—go for it. I’ll, uh… get the door.”
She grinned so big, clenching the shirt to her chest. “Oh my God. My adorable Crow is flustered again.”
“I’m not flustered.” I stood, walking away before I did something stupid.
“You are. And your back is extremely sexy. The tattoos. The crest. It’s giving Viking… with dynasty trauma.”
“Stop trying to flirt,” I called over my shoulder.
“Why?” she teased. “Is it working?”
I didn’t answer. Because it was. And I knew she knew it too.
By the time I came back from answering the door, she was standing near the foot of the bed holding two of my shirts in either hand, one plain black, the other a faded Crow Syndicate crest tee I barely wore anymore.
She looked up when I entered, completely unfazed by the fact she was still topless, and standing in my room like she owned the air.
“Okay.” She raised both shirts. “Which one do you like less?”
I arched a brow. “Why?”
“Because I’m claiming one as my here shirt,” she said, matter-of-fact. “The one I wear when I’m at your place and don’t feel like pretending I’m not.”
I stepped closer, setting the breakfast tray on the low table at the foot of the bed. “So you plan on coming back?”
She gave me a look. “Vince.”
“What?”
“You literally just told your entire criminal dynasty family to stop contacting you because you were in bed with me,” she shrugged. “I figured that was a sign.”
I huffed out a breath and pointed to the plain black tee. “That one. Less blood risk.”
She smiled. “Perfect.” She folded the other and dropped it back in the drawer, then held the chosen one to her chest like it was sacred. “This is mine now. You’re not allowed to get blood on it. Ever.”
I shrugged. “You can leave a few things here, if you want. Clothes. Whatever.”
When she looked at me again, her expression had changed. Not cold. Just… sharper. Like I’d said something heavier than I meant to.
She gave a soft. “You really don’t date, do you?”
“That’s not something I’d lie about.”
“No,” she said gently. “I don’t think you lie. I think you don’t know the rules.”
I didn’t answer. Mostly because I wasn’t sure which part stung more, the truth in her tone, or the fact that she wasn’t wrong. I moved past her, picked up the tray, and carried it to the bed.
“Come on,” I said, nodding to the sheets. “Eat before you pass out and I have to deal with that drama.”
Her smile and climbed back into bed beside me, sliding on the black tee, that was apparently her here top now.
Why did that make me nervous. Or was it excited.
We sat back against the headboard, sharing the tray between us.
She took the first bite of pancake and moaned.
It was wrong, but it went straight to my dick.
“Okay,” she said. “This was the right choice. You’re forgiven for the art gallery.”
I glanced at her. “Wasn’t aware I was still being punished.”
“You were.” She licked syrup from her finger. “But I’m merciful.”
I watched her for a long second, fork resting in my hand. “What would you have done if I hadn’t come after you?”
“I would’ve lied. Told myself it didn’t matter. That I’d imagined it all.”
“And would you have believed it?”
She shook her head once. “No. But it’s easier to live with rejection if you get to pretend you never really wanted it.”
I didn’t say anything. Just reached across the tray and gently hooked my fingers through hers. She let me. That’s right. Fingers. Apparently I’d gone that soft I’d settled for any contact.
We finished the pancakes slowly. She was still wearing my black shirt, sleeves pushed up, collar open just enough to show the slope of her shoulder.
Just pure fucking temptation sitting on my bed.
“Can I ask you something?” She asked.
I nodded. “You just did.”
She rolled her eyes, then shifted beside me, moving the tray aside so she could face me better. Her hand moved behind me, fingers ghosting across my back.
“You’ve got a tattoo that feels… different,” she said. “Back here, right side. Some of it’s smooth. But some of it—” She trailed her fingers lower, over the ridge near my spine. “Feels almost… carved in. Scarred.”
“That’s because it is.”
She blinked.
“Not all Crow tattoos are just ink. The back piece is done during the dynasty oath at sixteen. Some parts are cut in. The edges of the crest, the root line of the vow. The nanotech’s injected after the cutting, it syncs with the island and the blood vaults.”
Her eyes widened. “That’s… barbaric.”
“Ceremonial,” I corrected. “Tradition. Every Crow handler, heir, and enforcer has one. It’s how the codex validates bloodline claim.”
“Still barbaric,” she muttered, tracing the lines again. “Feels like armor.”
“It is.”
She was still touching it when I traced a pale mark on her thigh. “What about this?”
She glanced down, lips pressing together. “Oh. That.”
I lifted the shirt slightly, tracing the scar with my fingertip. It was smooth, but it wasn’t small.
“Looks old,”
She let out a dry laugh. “Yeah. I was thrown down a flight of marble stairs. When Dad got home, he was furious about it.”
“Thrown?”
She looked up, smile tugging at her mouth, too light to be real. “I’m kidding. I tripped.”
“You sure?”
She laughed softly, but it sounded like deflection. “Two flights of marble stairs. Not very graceful, I know.”
I nodded, but something in me didn’t settle. Not because she said it, because of how she said it. The smile, the phrasing, the fact that the first version of the story had been so much darker.
I didn’t push her. She tucked her leg under herself, pulling the shirt down to cover it.
She curled back beside me, and sighed. “You ever think,” she bit her bottom lip, “that it wouldn’t be that bad… not being synthetic?”
I glanced down at her, unsure where she was going with it.
“Dynasties stay dynasties because they don’t change,” she said waved hand. “Clean blood. No enhancements.”
I let her talk.
“The registry tracks everything,” she went on. “Every implant, chemical rewrite. So they know who’s got what running through their veins. But hardly anyone has unaltered blood anymore. You need generations—centuries—of it for your DNA to be considered pure. You need to be a dynasty.”
“Is there a reason you’re reciting the sovereign my love,” I played with her hair. Wondering where her mind was taking me with this history lesson.
“Sometimes I think it would be nice. Just once, to think about yourself. Take a pill, rewrite a flaw, stop worrying about lineage. Change something small and not care. Sometimes I think it would be nice to hide a scar, have flawless skin. Not…worry about if my kids inherits biomarkers.”
My fingers paused in her hair for a moment. “That’s how it starts.”
She tilted her head. “You’re against it.”
“I’m against renting your blood,”
She stared at me for a long moment. “So you wouldn’t ever change anything?”
I shook my head. “Humans shouldn’t play gods. And if they do, they shouldn’t be surprised when it kills them.”
“Not all of us can be Crows. Merge once and make it final.” Madeline traced the tattoo again.
I knew what she meant.
Dynasty girls were traded like bonds, their blood was sacred, merged and remarried depending on where the wealth shifted. Their value wasn’t in love. It was in who owned the rights to their future.
“Has your father ever mentioned it?”
She tilted her head to look at me. “Legacy? He talks about it every day.”
“And when he talks about your merge? Does he say it’ll be regional?”
She let out a soft, bitter laugh. “He says it’ll be what secures the strongest position. Which usually means not regional. Just… strategic.”
I reached for her hand, laced our fingers together.
She laid her head back against my chest.
“Crow bloodline stays alive because you have so many kids, right?”
I nodded once. “Six heirs. Mandatory.”
She made a sound between a scoff and a groan. “That’s ridiculous.”
“Our kind dies violently. The dynasty doesn’t risk gaps in succession.”
“I know it’s selfish, but I just want one merger. One contract. One set of kids. I don’t want to be handed off the second a clause expires. I don’t want to give him an heir, watch the contract end, get reimbursed like a failed investment and traded off to another family.”
I didn’t speak. Because every word that she spoke just tightened something in my chest that I didn’t understand.
She exhaled. “God forbid it’s international. But the sick part? My family would consider another merger. They’ve said as much. As long as the sovereign doesn’t red-flag it for genetic repeat, it’s viable.”
She paused. Then her beautiful eyes locked with mine. I moved my other hand from her thigh, to trace under her cheek.
“If you’re so against biotech,” she said, “and renting blood… then you agree with the system that protects it.”
“What system?”
She looked at me like it should be obvious. “Dynasty daughters.”
I didn’t say anything.
“Our job is to secure the best contract,” she went on, “the one that brings in the most wealth for the crest, the alliances, the most longevity. I give an heir. Maybe two if the merger runs long. Inheritance tracked. Then the contract ends and I get traded again.”
Her voice didn’t crack. It was worse than that, it was flat. As if she knew this was true she just expected more from me.