26. Zaria
ZARIA
The drive back to Greer's house takes less than two minutes—literally next door to Hayes's place.
My hands are still shaking slightly from the adrenaline of meeting his family, from Lilah's cautious acceptance and Ella's easy warmth.
From the way Hayes looked at me like he understood exactly what Greer and I have, because he has the same thing with Lilah.
Greer parks in his driveway and cuts the engine, and we sit there for a moment in the quiet darkness. His house looms ahead—empty, unused, a symbol of the life he's abandoned for me.
"That wasn't as bad as I thought it would be," I admit.
"Told you they'd love you." He turns to look at me, those green-gold eyes catching the streetlight. "You were perfect."
"I was terrified."
"I know." He reaches across, threading his fingers through mine. "Made it even more perfect. You faced down the people who matter most to me and didn't run."
The simple statement does something to my chest, makes it hard to breathe for a second. Then I'm out of the car, needing to move, needing to be inside where we can stop pretending to be civilized people who have family dinners and make small talk.
Greer unlocks the door and we step into darkness that smells faintly like him—clean laundry and that cedar candle Lilah bought him. He hits the lights and the foyer illuminates, showing the neat space that screams organization and control. Everything in its place, nothing out of order.
Exactly like him on the surface, before you dig down and find the darkness underneath.
"Want something to drink?" He's already moving toward the kitchen, playing host even though we both know how this night ends.
"No." I catch his wrist, stopping him. "I want you."
The heat that flares in his eyes makes my stomach clench with anticipation. But first he needs to know something. "Thank you," I say quietly. "For tonight. For introducing me to your family. For making me part of your life outside Jersey."
"You're part of everything." His voice drops lower, rougher. "There's no separation anymore. You're just... mine. In every way that matters."
The possessive certainty in his words sends heat pooling low in my belly. I step closer, wrapping my arms around him from behind as he stands in the kitchen doorway. My cheek presses against his back, feeling the steady rise and fall of his breathing, the warmth of him through his shirt.
This feels oddly domestic—standing here in his empty house after dinner with his family, holding him like we've done this a thousand times before. Like we're building something that extends beyond violence and strategy into actual partnership.
Like we're building a life.
Greer turns in my arms, and the expression on his face is pure heat—eyes darkening as they trace over me, taking in the way I'm pressed against him. His hands find my hips, pulling me closer.
"Bedroom," he murmurs against my ear. "Now."
I pull him into a kiss instead of answering, backing toward the stairs as my mouth opens under his. He makes a rough sound in his chest, following me, hands already working at the buttons of my sweater. We stumble through his living room, lips never breaking contact, clothes coming off in pieces.
My sweater hits the floor at the base of the stairs.
His shirt follows two steps up. By the time we reach the landing, I'm in my bra and jeans, and he's shirtless, and the sight of him makes my mouth water.
Lean muscle from training with Hayes and Cain, new scars layering over old ones, the fading bruises from Newark still visible on his ribs.
Evidence of what he's survived for me. With me.
I push him against the wall, kissing him harder, teeth scraping his bottom lip until he groans. His hands find my ass, gripping hard enough to bruise, and I love it—love the way he doesn't hold back, doesn't treat me like I'm fragile.
We make it to his bedroom through sheer determination, leaving a trail of clothes behind us. By the time we cross the threshold, I'm in just my underwear and he's down to his boxers, both of us breathing hard.
The bed sits ahead—perfectly made because of course it is, Greer's pathological need for order evident even here. I intend to destroy it.
I unhook my bra, letting it fall, watching his eyes track the movement. Then I push my underwear down and step out of it, completely bare before him. His gaze drags over every inch of me—scarred skin, lean muscle, the body I've weaponized for years now offered up for his pleasure.
"Christ," he breathes. "You're so fucking beautiful."
"And you're overdressed." I nod at his boxers, climbing onto the bed and positioning myself in the center. I let my legs fall open, giving him a clear view of everything. "Come here."
He strips off the boxers without taking his eyes off me, and I watch his cock spring free—already hard, already ready. But I don't want that yet. Want something else first.
"We never got dessert," I purr, running my hands up my thighs. "And I know how much you love to eat."
The grin that spreads across his face is pure sin—dirty and eager and so fucking perfect it makes my breath catch. Then he's crawling onto the bed, settling between my spread legs, green-gold eyes locked on mine.
"Best dessert I've ever had," he murmurs, pressing kisses up my inner thigh.
The first touch of his tongue makes me gasp, head falling back against the pillows. He always does this like he's starving for it—no teasing, no hesitation, just diving in like tasting me is the only thing that matters. His mouth seals over my clit and I arch into it, one hand flying to his hair.
"Fuck, yes." My voice comes out breathy, needy. "Such a good boy for me."
He groans against me at the praise, the vibration sending pleasure sparking up my spine. Then his fingers join his mouth, sliding inside me with perfect pressure. He knows exactly how I like it now—tongue circling my clit while his fingers curl, finding that spot that makes my vision blur.
"That's it." I tighten my grip in his hair, holding him where I want him. "Right there. Don't you dare stop."
He doesn't. He works me with single-minded focus, reading every gasp and moan, adjusting pressure and rhythm until I'm trembling on the edge. His free hand grips my thigh, keeping me spread wide, and the possessive hold combined with the relentless pleasure of his mouth pushes me higher.
"I love feeling you like this." My voice is rough, breathless. "Love having your mouth on me. Love watching you pleasure me like the good boy you are."
The words make him double his efforts, sucking harder on my clit while his fingers pump faster. My whole body pulls tight, tension coiling in my core, and I know I'm close—so fucking close.
"Don't stop." My hips rock against his face. "Gonna come for you. Gonna—fuck?—"
The orgasm hits like lightning, white-hot and devastating.
I cry out, back arching off the bed, thighs clamping around his head as pleasure crashes through me in waves.
He doesn't stop, drawing it out until I'm shaking and oversensitive, until I have to push at his shoulders to make him give me space to breathe.
He pulls back, chin glistening with evidence of what he just did, eyes blown dark with arousal. His cock is rock hard against his stomach, leaking precum, and I can see how much effort it's taking him to wait.
"Please." His voice is wrecked. "Sweetheart, please. Need to be inside you. Need?—"
"Come here." I crook my finger, watching him crawl up my body. When he's close enough, I cup his face, forcing him to look at me. "You want to fuck me?"
"Yes." No hesitation. "So fucking bad."
"Then do it." I spread my legs wider, wrapping them around his hips. "Fuck me hard. Show me how much you need it."
He doesn't need more permission than that.
His hand wraps around his cock, positioning himself, and then he's slamming into me in one brutal thrust that steals my breath.
I cry out at the stretch, at the perfect fullness of him buried deep, and he pauses for just a heartbeat—giving me time to adjust.
Then he moves.
It's hard and rough and perfect—exactly how we always fuck. No gentle lovemaking, no tender exploration. Just raw need and desperate pleasure, bodies moving together with bruising force. His hips snap against mine, driving deep with every thrust, and I meet him stroke for stroke.
My nails rake down his back, leaving red lines I know will mark him tomorrow. He groans and bites my shoulder in retaliation, teeth sinking into skin hard enough to bruise. The sharp pain mixes with pleasure and I clench around him, dragging a rough curse from his throat.
"Harder." I fist my hand in his hair, yanking his head back so I can see his face. "You can take it. Fuck me harder."
He obeys immediately, pistoning into me with enough force to make the headboard slam against the wall. His hand finds my hip, gripping so tight I know there'll be fingerprint bruises later—evidence of this, of us, of the way we destroy each other every single time.
"Like that?" His voice is strained, breathless. "This what you want?"
"Yes." I bite his jaw, his neck, anywhere I can reach. "Perfect. You're so fucking perfect for me."
The praise makes him groan, makes his rhythm stutter for just a second before he finds it again.
I roll us suddenly, using my weight to flip him onto his back so I can ride him instead.
The change in angle makes us both gasp—deeper, more intense, my clit grinding against his pelvis with every movement.
I set a brutal pace, hands braced on his chest for leverage, taking what I need. His hands find my hips again, guiding my movements but not controlling them—he knows better than to try. I'm in charge even like this, even with him inside me, and the power of it makes me dizzy.
"Zaria." His free hand finds my breast, thumb circling my nipple. "I'm close. So fucking close."
"Hold it." I lean down, teeth scraping his ear. "Don't you dare come until I tell you to."
The desperate sound he makes is beautiful—pure need and submission wrapped together. I feel my own orgasm building again, tension coiling tighter with every movement. I'm getting close, chasing it, grinding down harder on him.
"Now." The word tears out of me as pleasure explodes through my core. "Come for me now."
He obeys instantly, body going rigid beneath mine as he spills inside me with a broken groan. The feeling of him pulsing, filling me, pushes my own orgasm higher until I'm shaking through aftershocks, collapsed against his chest.
We lie there tangled together, both gasping for air, skin slick with sweat. His arms wrap around me automatically, holding me close even though we're both overheated. I can feel his heart racing against my cheek, gradually slowing as we come down.
This is my favorite part—the aftermath, when we're stripped bare in every way that matters. No violence, no strategy, no armor. Just us.
Greer's hand traces lazy patterns on my spine, and I feel his chest expand as he takes a deep breath. Like he's preparing for something. "I have something I've been wanting to tell you."
"What's that?" I breathe.
"I love you."
The words land between us like a grenade, detonating all the careful distance I've maintained.
My whole body goes rigid, heart stuttering in my chest. He just told me he loves me.
Greer Martin, clean-cut marketing analyst who chased me into darkness, who killed for me, who integrated himself into my world with terrifying completeness—he loves me.
I should've known this was coming. Should've seen it building through every choice he made, every line he crossed, every time he looked at me like I was his entire world. But hearing it out loud makes it real in a way nothing else has.
I push up on my elbow, needing to see his face. His green-gold eyes are steady on mine, no fear or uncertainty in them. Just truth.
"You love me," I repeat stupidly.
"Yeah." His hand comes up to cup my face. "Have for weeks. Was just waiting for you to meet my family before I said it."
The casual admission makes something crack in my chest—something I've kept carefully protected since my father went to prison, since I had to become hard enough to run his empire. The vulnerability terrifies me more than any rival crew ever has.
But Greer's looking at me like I'm worth that risk. Like saying it out loud doesn't make him weaker, just makes us more.
And I realize with shocking clarity that I've been in love with him for just as long.
That every time he showed up at a fight, every gift of violence and loyalty, every moment of submission and strength—it all added up to this.
To feeling something I swore I'd never feel again after watching my father get taken away.
"I love you too," I hear myself say.
The words shock us both. His eyes widen fractionally, and I can see him processing what I just admitted. Then the most devastating smile I've ever seen spreads across his face—pure joy mixed with relief and possession.
"Say it again," he demands softly.
"I love you." It comes easier the second time. "You're mine. Completely. And I love you."
He kisses me then, deep and thorough, and it feels different than before.
Not less passionate, but layered with new meaning.
This isn't just claiming or pleasure—this is promise.
Commitment. The two of us choosing to build something permanent out of violence and trust and this bone-deep certainty that we're exactly where we're supposed to be.
When we break apart, we're both breathing hard again. His hand stays on my face, thumb stroking my cheekbone like I'm precious instead of deadly.
"Best dessert ever," he murmurs, and I can't help the laugh that escapes.
"You're ridiculous."
"And you love me anyway."
"Yeah." I settle back against his chest, letting him hold me. "I really fucking do."
We lie there in his empty house, tangled together in sheets that smell like sex and us, and for the first time in years I feel something like peace. Not soft or weak—we're still who we are, still dangerous and violent when we need to be. But grounded in something stronger than fear or survival.
Grounded in this.
In us.
In love that exists alongside the darkness instead of despite it.