Alec
My breakfast paninis had wilted baby spinach tucked inside them that morning, layered with poached eggs.
The nutrition needed to be more balanced now—to account for Ella and the potential fetus.
Nick was my sous-chef in training, and Ella was the occasional baker.
None of them would notice the subtle changes. They never did.
Rowan set the table while Ella helped carry the drinks and plates. Domestic. Ordinary. The kind of scene that looked almost normal if you didn’t know what sat beneath it.
Once everyone was seated, I turned my attention to Ella.
“Open up, sweetheart,” I murmured.
I watched her lips part without hesitation.
I placed the tiny pill on her tongue—the new one Rowan had provided.
The devious bastard.
“Just imagine if you missed a day,” I said lightly, handing her the glass of orange juice. “With multiple loads being pumped inside you, you’d be knocked up within a few days.”
Nick choked on his coffee, coughing into his hand as Rowan shot me a sharp warning look over the table.
Ella froze. Her eyes went wide, fingers tightening around the glass like it might slip from her grasp.
I smiled and began to eat, unbothered. Rowan’s words had already taken root, sinking deep enough to become my next fixation. Some of the things I enjoyed doing to Ella would have to be sacrificed—but only temporarily.
Nine months was nothing.
I took a slow sip of my coffee, deliberately ignoring Nick’s glare.
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Numbers, calculations, and formulas had always fascinated me. They were puzzles waiting to be solved—patterns hidden beneath chaos. That was why I thrived in our line of work.
If I’d gone into the corporate world, I’d have ended up a mass murderer.
Today, though, I wasn’t devising creative accounting strategies or manipulating figures on a balance sheet. I was thinking in probabilities.
Ella’s young womb.
Stretching.
Filled with our seed.
The probability was surrounded by practical considerations—timing, access, compliance—but in the end, fate always held the final say.
And if probability was going to be given a fair chance—
Nick had to be told.
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Rowan called the weekly meeting earlier than usual—something he only did when there was a reason. I’d nudged him into it, persuaded him that including Nick now was necessary. I hadn’t bothered laying out my full rationale. There was no need. I knew how Rowan’s mind worked.
It was enough to remind him of us.
Brotherhood. Structure. Unity.
No one benefited from drama. No one survived fractures. What made us formidable wasn’t brute force or indulgence—it was cohesion. A united front. Without it, everything weakened.
After leaving work, I went straight to Dominion.
Seeing Ella on duty pulled my attention instantly. It brought me back to that evening in Rowan’s office—the way she’d followed instruction without hesitation, the way she’d adapted. Talented. Diligent.
A natural at sucking cock.
She finished giving directions to a customer just as I slipped in behind her. Quietly. It was a habit of mine. She always noticed, though—always sensed me before I spoke.
I wrapped my arms around her waist and lowered my chin to her shoulder, close enough to feel her warmth through the fabric. Her body went rigid for half a second. Then she softened, tension draining as recognition set in.
“Hello, Ella,” I murmured, rolling my hips just enough to make the point.
“Alec,” she breathed.
I smiled against her hair, inhaling the clean scent of her shampoo—dark strands brushing my cheek.
“I do enjoy my name on your lips,” I said quietly. “I enjoy it even more when I’m buried deep inside you.”
Her breath hitched—sharp, involuntary.
That was enough for now.
If the meeting unfolded the way it should, we’d all be leaving early tonight. Together.
Reluctantly, I pulled away, already missing her warmth.
“I’ll see you later,” I said.
And this time, I meant it.
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Nick had his feet up on a stool, relaxed in that careless way of his, as we wrapped up the meeting. The office was thick with the smell of smoke and whiskey—familiar, grounding. Rowan shut his laptop with a soft click and leaned back in his chair.
He looked at both of us, but his gaze lingered on Nick when he finally spoke.
“We’ve built quite an empire,” he said, almost casually.
“Hustle’s grown legs,” Nick grunted.
He wasn’t wrong. There were more desperate gamblers crawling through the pits of London than ever, and we didn’t share that market with anyone.
Hustle stood alone. Dominion, on the other hand, was constrained—regulations, optics, competition from other high-end establishments constantly nipping at its heels.
Rowan steepled his fingers, eyes thoughtful.
“What are we building it for?”
Nick’s brow furrowed, bemused. The expression made me smile.
“So we’re at the top of the game,” Nick replied.
“Sure,” Rowan said calmly. “And when we’re dead and gone?”
Nick’s feet dropped from the stool. He leaned forward, resting his weight on the edge of his chair now, his gaze flicking between us.
“Is this a cancer talk?” he asked lightly—but the concern in his eyes gave him away.
“No one has cancer, dickhead,” I said with a short chuckle.
But the question had already landed.
“I think we should use Ella to produce our heirs,” Rowan said, tapping his gold pen against the desk in a slow, deliberate rhythm.
Nick reared back as if he’d been struck—shoulders tensing, spine straightening, breath hitching for just a fraction too long.
Then Rowan twisted the knife with surgical precision.
“Become a real family.”