18. Jamison #2
Emmie immediately hid her face against his chest. Marcel’s hand moved up her back, soothing her before she even asked for it.
“It’s fine, baby,” he murmured. “I’m only making him understand.”
“I understand,” I said sharply.
“You understand the law,” Marcel replied. “You are not acting like you understand the sight. If you keep pretending you do not care, that is where this goes.”
For Crows, the claiming rite was normal. Old. Public in the dynasty sense, which meant private to everyone except the people whose opinions mattered. Sex as confirmation that the marriage had moved from paper into body.
Crows accepted it the way we accepted violence at dinner.
Our wives took longer.
Emmie still hid her face when anyone mentioned it, even now. She had built a whole life inside the very customs that had once terrified her.
I could not think of Sienna on a bed beneath Weston St. Cross while I stood as Harlan blood and bled a protection oath because the family law required male kin to acknowledge the transfer.
Claiming her while I watched because I had been too proud. My body went cold, then hot…violent.
Marcel bent his head and kissed her hair. “It’s fine, baby.”
She nodded, still hiding her face.
“I’m going mad,” I sat on the chair near the fireplace because my legs suddenly did not feel entirely reliable. That irritated me. I had been shot before and stayed standing. Feelings apparently had worse aim.
“I’m going mad,” I repeated. “I can run Harlan. I can order men killed before lunch and eat afterward. I can sit across from Damius Crow and lie straight. But Sienna stops asking for my hand and I feel like something is clawing under my skin.”
I looked down at my own hands. Big. Tattooed. Violent. The hands she once placed in her lap like they were precious instead of dangerous.
“I miss her asking,” I said. “I miss Jamjam, and I hated that fucking name. I miss her talking too much. I miss her standing beside me and telling me details no one else would notice. I miss her voice, and I’m the one who made her silence feel safer.”
No one spoke. I needed the silence to survive the humiliation of honesty.
“That means your heart works.” Emmie said, after a moment.
“My heart can fuck off.”
He shifted Emmie closer, then gave me the kind of look he only used when he was about to give advice that felt like an order.
“Get the review over. Stop letting Damius make Sienna a question. If she is yours, then take responsibility for what that means. Take ownership of your submissive and your wife if that is the direction you intend to go.”
The words moved through me too hot. My submissive… wife.
Fuck.
Emmie wiped beneath one eye with the sleeve of Marcel’s shirt. “She tried so hard to find a version of you she could love without being hurt.”
My chest went tight enough to hurt. Because I hurt her anyway. I leaned forward. “What do I do?”
That question cost a fucking lot. Marcel knew it.
My brother knew all sides of me, and not one had ever been unsure.
He had stood beside me when we were younger, less sure we would survive becoming the men Damius wanted. I had called from alleys, hotels, fight rings, disaster meetings. He had never needed me good to come when I needed him.
“You apologize,” She leaned forward. “Properly, Jamison. Not a Crow apology where you buy a building and expect her to understand the emotion hiding inside it.”
Marcel’s mouth twitched.
I glared at him. “Don’t enjoy this.”
“I am enjoying Emmie disciplining you.”
“She is not disciplining me.”
Emmie’s brows lifted.
I shut my mouth.
Marcel looked far too pleased.
“Fine,” I said. “I apologize.”
“And you don’t make it about your feelings,” Emmie said. “You make it about what you did to her.”
I nodded once. The word sorry felt like glass in my mouth already.
“Then you prove change through consistency.” Marcel traced Emmie shoulder, “She has learned your cruelty is reliable. Make care more reliable.”
Sienna beside me like a beautiful ghost I had made. I deeply fucking regretted that ball. Ever since it her personality vanished. I gulped. Because a larger part of me knew… that was the night I fully broke her.
“How did you do it? You and Emmie.” I gestured between them.
“You were there,” he Marcel’s gaze dropped to his wife. “Our merger was fucking worse. Christ, I was engaged first to her sister.”
Emmie shifted away from him, enough to make a point. Marcel looked down at her with that dangerous patience he kept only for his wife.
“Baby.”
She turned her face away.
I stared at the fireplace because I had not meant to step directly into one of their old wounds, but apparently emotional crises were contagious.
Marcel slid an arm around her waist and pulled her back against him.
She resisted for one second on principle.
Then let him. Her arms stayed crossed. Marcel looked over her head at me and smirked.
The bastard. We both knew she wasn’t really upset.
“Marcel is very lucky I took pity on him.” She added, faking interest in the blanket.
“Extremely lucky,” Marcel agreed at once.
“And his player ways were honestly a concern.”
“Of course.”
“It was touch and go.” She lifted her chin.
I nodded gravely. “Very touch and go.”
Marcel nodded too. “Nearly fatal.”
Emmie looked between us, suspicious. “Are you mocking me?”
“No,” we said together.
She narrowed her eyes.
Marcel kissed her temple. “Never, baby.”
“You were terrible,” she told him.
“I was.”
“And arrogant.”
“Yes.”
“And convinced I would just fall in line because you were Marcel Crow.” Emmie looked down at her hands. Marcel took one and brought it to his mouth, kissing her fingers like it was instinct.
“It took time,” he said quietly, eyes on Emmie.
Fuck.
I hated emotional language when it worked. I stood because sitting made me feel too exposed. My hands shook slightly, so I shoved them into my pockets. I moved toward the door, then stopped.
“Thanks,” I said. It sounded insufficient.
Marcel nodded once. That was enough for us. Emmie cleared her throat. I looked at her. She was sitting against Marcel’s chest, chin lifted in that proud little way.
“You’re welcome,” she said.
I frowned. “For what?”
“My help.”
Marcel’s mouth twitched. I looked at the ceiling.
“Thank you, Emmie.”
She smiled, satisfied. “Good. And Jamison?”
“What?”
“Do not be cruel to her because you are scared.”
I held her gaze for a second, then nodded.
“I’ll try.”
“Try harder than that.” Her expression sharpened.
Christ. She was terrifying when she wanted to be.
“I will.”
That seemed to satisfy her. Marcel started to pull her back down the bed and rearranged the pillows. The man took way tok much fucking pride in her comfort, and now I was worried it was contagious.
“Call me before you make a stupid decision.” He called out after I walked out.
“I make those constantly. You’ll need a schedule.”
“I’ll clear my morning.”
I smirked, and kept walking. I, Jamison Crow the least safe thing in Harlan wanted to be safe for Sienna. I had no fucking idea how I would do it. But I would try. Repeatedly.
First I would end this review. My ego caused the situation. So, I deserved a level of consequences. I just refused for it to be a life time without Sienna. Instead, earning her trust after three years of pure cruelty seemed fitting.