Chapter 29 Vince
Vince
Atticus DuPont needed to disappear. By my hand, preferably.
Nothing dramatic or traceable. Just one less well-bred shark circling my girl. Every time his name landed next to hers, my brain started running numbers on what it would cost to take him off the board and how quickly I could make his dynasty sign the condolence flowers.
On the plane. Can’t send your picture, Daddy. Tiny bathroom, three uncles, Atticus and security. I’ll make it up to you tonight. You can take the dress off yourself.
No photo attached. Just that.
Two weeks of her being a good little sub, sending me obedient morning shots in the bras and panties I chose. My phone lighting up at 6:03 a.m. with Daddy-approved lace.
And the one morning my cock woke up before my alarm, already hard and waiting for my girl? A line about businessman in a suit and her uncles on a jet instead.
I’d stared at that message way too long. Imagined the scene. Her tucked in a seat with Atticus-fucking-DePout next to her, pretending he wasn’t looking down her dress.
The possessive part of my brain, which was most of it, had not enjoyed that exercise.
Veil had made it worse, which was a fucking talent. Two hours later she’d gone live from the Harrington launch in Harlan. Streaming from some gilded balcony, camera cutting between her and Atticus as they smiled.
Meanwhile, the man she belonged to was in Villain, pacing a trench in his own floor waiting for the elevator.
I checked the time.
Seven minutes late.
The penthouse elevator lights crawled from 44 to 45, then stayed there like it knew I was watching and wanted to test me.
Luca would have a lecture about mindfulness for this. Rome would tell me to jerk off and take the edge off. Bastion would suggest violence as a coping mechanism.
I dragged a hand over my jaw and turned my back on the doors, staring out at the city instead. Villain sprawled under the glass, neon veins and dark arteries. My city. My territory. The only place she was allowed to be without my pulse jumping into my throat.
I forced my shoulders to unlock, rolled them back. Deep breath in. Out.
Don’t scare her, Crow.
The elevator pinged.
Every thought went white.
The doors slid open and the world narrowed down to a soft, light pink.
Madeline stood in the centre of the car, one hand on the rail, suitcase by her ankle. Her dress skimmed mid-thigh, some deceptively simple thing that looked casual until you clocked the tailoring and gold jewellery
I crossed the space in two strides. I caught her waist, hauled her up, and her legs wrapped around my hips like we’d practiced it.
She laughed against my mouth. “Vince—”
“Later,” I muttered, and kissed her like a lovesick teenager who’d finally cornered his crush behind the gym.
Primal wasn’t even the word. Whatever lived under my skin when it came to her was older than Crow codex. Viking, wolf, something feral that believed in imprinting and raids and you’re mine said once and never revoked.
She squeezed her legs a little tighter around my waist, like she’d decided I wasn’t putting her down yet. Correct.
I stepped backward out of the lift, kicked the door panel.
She tipped her head back to look at me properly. “You’re doing your brooding thing.”
“I’m doing my what-is-Atticus-Depout’s-spleen-worth thing.”
Her eyebrows shot up. “You focused on the jet.”
“You were on a plane with four uncles, him, and a security team that doesn’t work for me. And that my morning picture got sacrificed to modesty.”
She laughed, that soft, delighted sound I’d been replaying in my head for days. “I told you I’d make it up to you. I couldn’t exactly text you my panties while Atticus was arguing about runway slots in the seat next to me.”
I grunted, halfway between grudging understanding and still-offended. She leaned in, kissed the corner of my mouth.
“You’ll survive,” she murmured. “Besides… you get the live reveal tonight. That beats a picture.”
That soothed the feral part of my brain. My girl. My sub. My sweet little exhibitionist who would let Veil see the dress but saved the real show for Daddy.
She nestled against me as I crossed the room, arms looped around my neck. I caught a flash of her heels.
“New shoes?”
Her head snapped up, eyes lighting. “You noticed.”
Of course I fucking noticed. I noticed everything on my girl.
“Hard to miss when you’ve got knives on your feet.”
“They’re not knives,” she protested as I lowered her onto the couch. “They’re art.”
She yanked the hem of her skirt up to display them properly, like she’d been waiting all day for this. Deep wine-red heels, shine like they’d never touched pavement, slim ankle straps, obnoxiously high.
“They’re Harrington. Limited drop. Only five pairs in this colour on the whole continent.”
She pointed at the little knot at the back. “And look. Bow.”
A tiny bow sat where the strap met the heel, same shade as the leather, ridiculous and perfect.
“I found a hair ribbon in almost the exact colour,” she let out a deep dreamy sigh, “So obviously I had to buy both or the universe would implode.”
“Obviously,” I said dryly.
She ignored my tone. “You should have seen the saleswoman’s face when I walked in with three Thorne uncles. She didn’t know whether to faint or commission a plaque.”
“What did she do?”
“Brought champagne. Anyway, they only had one pair in my size. One. Some other woman was holding them, but she said she just wanted a picture for Veil, so I—” She broke off. “You don’t want to hear this.”
“I do,” my thumb stroked over her ankle. “Tell me how you outmanoeuvred a stranger for shoes you don’t need.”
“I always need shoes. Fine. I told her the lighting in that section was awful and there was a better mirror by the front. Then I walked off with the box while she was checking her angles.”
A laugh punched out of me. “You stole Harringtons from a random dynasty wife.”
“I did not steal them. I redirected her.”
“Like a port shipment.”
“Exactly,” she said, pleased. “You do like my criminal tendencies.”
I did. I liked everything about her when she was lit up like this.
“This is the part where you call them obscene,” she said, wiggling her toes in my hold. “So I can remind you that obscene can be pretty.”
“They’re obscene. And I’m jealous.”
Her eyes widened. “Of my shoes?”
“Of whoever paid for them.”
She blinked once, then again, like she’d expected teasing, not that. “Vince—”
“You were in Harrington. In Harlan. With Atticus and your uncles, walking around in a dress that makes grown men stupid, picking out heels that cost more than some cars. And you didn’t use my card.”
“I’m not using your card for shoes. That’s insane.”
“It’s not insane. It’s basic math. My sub, my responsibility, my card.”
She laughed, tried to tug her foot back; I didn’t let her. “You’re impossible.”
“You’re underutilising my assets.”
“That’s a terrifying sentence.”
“You’re supposed to let me provide for you. Not because you can’t. Because I want to.”
Her eyes softened, then slid away, guilty. “I already live in your penthouse every second weekend. I’m not also emptying your accounts on silk and leather.”
“You wouldn’t make a dent. And if you did, I’d work harder. I like working harder when it’s for you.”
“That’s very—”
“Intense,” I supplied.
“Yes.”
“Welcome to dating a Crow. You get the syndicate portfolio, the overprotective instincts, and a man who gets personally offended when someone else pays for his girl’s shoes.”
“Atticus didn’t buy them,” she said quickly. “I did.”
Her hand slid down, covering mine where it circled her ankle. “I like buying my own things. It makes me feel like I exist outside of everyone’s ledgers. Not just as—“ She cut herself off. Asset.
I tightened my grip, not enough to hurt, just enough to remind her whose hand was on her now.
“I’m not saying you can’t buy your own shoes. I’m saying if you see something that makes your eyes look like this…” I tipped my chin toward her face. “…and you don’t tell me, I’m offended on principle. I want the pleasure of spoiling you.”
“You already do. With time. And calls. And… everything else.”
“That’s not spoiling. That’s baseline. That’s what you get for waking up and choosing me to be your dom. Spoiling is extra.”
She opened her mouth, probably to deflect, then shut it again when my thumb stroked the inside of her ankle, slow.
Colour climbed into her cheeks. “You’re doing that on purpose.”
“I’ve been waiting two weeks to touch you anywhere. This is restraint.”
She laughed again. “You know what I missed. Besides this.” Her fingers brushed higher on my arm.
“What.”
“You complaining about my show.”
“Your show is a crime against television.”
“You love it.”
“I love you,” I corrected. “The show is evidence democracy doesn’t work.”
She rolled her eyes, relaxed now. “You know every name.”
“That’s because you give me a daily briefing like you’re presenting syndicate intel. Don’t pretend you don’t love the debrief more than the episodes.”
Her face lit up in that way that killed me. “Okay, so, you remember Kira?”
“The one who thinks crying on cue is a personality.”
“She does not—okay, she does, but that’s not the point.
” Madeline tucked her leg under her, forgetting I still had her ankle, ending up half turned toward me.
“She finally confronted Ezra about the secret fiancée and it was… oh my God, you would have screamed. She walked in with the receipts printed.”
“Receipts,” I echoed.
“Screenshots,” she clarified. “Of his Veil messages. In a binder. Colour-coded.”
I huffed out a reluctant laugh. “That’s psychotic.”
“That’s commitment. She put tabs on each lie. I have never loved a woman more.”
Of course she identified with the girl who built a case file.
She went on, hands flying, describing the scene in breathless detail. Her voice rose and fell, all the little emotional peaks and valleys of someone who cared about fictional people like they were neighbours.
I let myself sink back into the cushions and watched her.