18. The Proposition
The Proposition
Nathan
Tonight, I'm done hiding.
I've been planning this for weeks—longer, maybe. Since the night Monika walked into the warehouse and tried to stop me. Since the night she looked at me with those steady eyes and said, "I'm trying to save you."
She doesn't understand. She can't save me. No one can. But she can help me.
She can help me take what's mine.
The mansion is quiet.
I walk through the hallways with purpose—not the aimless pacing of a man who can't sleep, but the deliberate stride of a man who has finally made a decision.
The portraits on the walls watch me pass, their painted eyes following my movements.
My father's ancestors. The men who built this empire with blood and fear and the bodies of everyone who stood in their way.
They'd understand. They'd understand what I'm about to do.
The study is dark. My father is inside—I can see the sliver of light beneath the door, hear the low murmur of his voice on the phone. He's been taking more calls lately. More meetings. More attempts to rein me in, to pull me back from the edge.
He's too late.
I've already fallen.
I find her in her room.
She's sitting on the bed, her back against the headboard, a book open in her lap. She's been reading more lately—the same veterinary textbooks she's been carrying around for a year, as if they'll somehow keep her tethered to the girl she used to be.
She looks up when I enter. Her eyes are wary, guarded, the same way they've been since the night in the warehouse. She's been avoiding me. She's been planning something—I can see it in the way she holds herself, the way she watches me like I'm a threat.
She's right. I am a threat.
But not to her.
"Nathan." Her voice is steady. It's always steady. "What can I do for you?"
"I need your help."
She sets the book aside. She doesn't invite me to sit. She just watches me, her brown eyes unreadable.
"With what?"
I close the door behind me. The click of the latch sounds like a gunshot in the quiet room. I walk toward her—slow, deliberate, the way my father taught me to approach a negotiation.
"I'm going to take over the empire," I say. "I'm going to take out my father and my brother. And I want you to help me."
She stares at me. Her face doesn't change—no shock, no fear, no surprise. She's been expecting this. She's been waiting for it.
"You want me to help you kill them," she says.
"I want you to help me take what's mine.
" I stop at the foot of the bed, looking down at her.
"They're weak. They're holding us back. My father is too cautious, too sentimental, too distracted by his grief and his guilt to do what needs to be done.
Gabriel is too soft, too idealistic, too busy playing doctor to understand how the world actually works. "
"And you?"
"I'm the only one who can lead this family into the future." I pause. "I'm the only one who can protect you."
"I don't need protection."
"You need something." I sit on the edge of the bed. Close enough to touch. Far enough to give her space. "You need someone who understands you. Someone who sees you for what you really are."
"And what am I?"
"Mine." The word comes out before I can stop it. Raw. Honest. The kind of honesty I've never shown anyone. "You've been mine since the moment I saw you. You've been mine since the moment you looked at me like I was something other than a monster."
Her breath catches. Just slightly. Just enough for me to see.
"I'm not going to pretend I'm a good man," I say. "I'm not going to pretend I'm doing this for noble reasons. I'm doing this because I want power. I'm doing this because I want control. I'm doing this because I want you."
"You already have me."
"No." I shake my head. "I have your body. I have your fear. I have your pity. But I don't have your loyalty. I don't have your trust."
"You've killed children, Nathan. You've trafficked them. You—"
"I know what I did." My voice is sharp. "I know what I am and what I am doing. I've known since the moment I watched my first man die, since the moment I gave my first order, since the moment I realized that power is the only thing that matters in this world."
"Power isn't everything."
"It's the only thing." I lean closer. "And if you help me, I'll give you anything you want. I'll give you the world. I'll give you the life you were supposed to have."
She's silent for a long moment. The room is dark, the only light coming from the moon through the window. Her face is shadowed, unreadable, beautiful.
"I'll help you," she says.
I don't know what I expected.
Anger, maybe. Tears. A lecture about morality and decency and all the things I've forgotten how to feel. But she doesn't give me any of that. She just looks at me with those steady brown eyes and says, "I'll help you."
"Why?" I ask.
"Because I want to save you."
"I told you—"
"I know what you told me." She reaches for my hand. Her fingers are warm against mine. "But I don't care what you told me. I care about what you are. And what you are isn't beyond saving."
"You're wrong."
"Then prove it." She squeezes my hand. "Let me help you. Let me show you that there's another way."
"There's no other way."
"Then let me try."
I stare at her. The room is quiet. The house is quiet. The whole world feels quiet, like it's holding its breath, waiting for something to happen.
And then I kiss her.
It's different this time.
It's not the desperate, demanding kiss of a man who's trying to claim something he can't have. It's not the rough, possessive kiss of a man who's trying to prove his power. It's something else—something softer, something deeper, something that feels almost like surrender.
She kisses me back. Her hands find my face, my neck, my chest. She pulls me closer, and I let her. I let her take control. I let her guide me.
"Tell me what you want," she whispers against my lips.
"I want you."
"Then take me."
I don't need to be told twice.
I push her back against the pillows. I undress her slowly—the way my father would, the way Gabriel would—unbuttoning her blouse, sliding it off her shoulders, pressing my lips to every inch of skin I reveal. She shivers beneath my touch. Her hands find my hair, my shoulders, my back.
"You're beautiful," I say. The words come out before I can stop them. "You're so beautiful."
"Shut up," she says. "Just—shut up and fuck me."
I laugh. It's a real laugh—the first real laugh I've had in years. "You're full of surprises, farm girl."
"And you're full of shit."
I kiss her again. I undress myself—hurriedly, impatiently—and I press my body against hers. She's warm. She's soft. She's everything I'm not.
"Tell me what you want," I say. "Tell me what you need."
"I need you." She wraps her legs around my waist. "I need you to stop treating me like a possession. I need you to treat me like a person."
"A person."
"A partner."
I look at her. Really look. At the fire in her eyes, the strength in her hands, the way she holds herself like she's ready to fight even though she's the one who's pinned beneath me.
"Okay," I say. "A partner."
Before I’m even inside her, I need to taste her. I need to undo her.
I slide down her body, my lips tracing a path from her collarbone to the valley between her breasts, down the soft plane of her stomach. Her skin is warm, and she shivers beneath my touch. I hook my hands under her thighs and pull her to the edge of the bed, spreading her open for me.
"Nathan..." she breathes, a hint of uncertainty in her voice.
"Shh," I murmur, my breath ghosting over her. "Let me. Just let me."
I start with broad, flat strokes of my tongue, learning the taste of her, the rhythm of her pleasure.
She gasps, her back arching off the mattress.
Her hands fly to my hair, not to pull me away, but to hold me there.
I could stay here forever, lost in the scent and taste of her.
This isn't about power. It's about devotion. It's a prayer, and she is the altar.
I find her clit and circle it with the tip of my tongue, slowly, deliberately. Her hips buck. I pull back, blowing a cool stream of air on her heated flesh. She whimpers.
"Please," she begs, her voice tight. "Don't stop."
"I won't," I promise, and it’s a vow. "Not until you've given me everything."
I slide two fingers inside her, curling them just so, stroking that spot deep within that makes her see stars.
My mouth never leaves her, licking and sucking in a rhythm that matches the thrust of my fingers.
I can feel her inner muscles starting to flutter, her climax building like a wave.
Her breaths are coming in sharp, desperate pants.
"That's it," I whisper against her, the vibration making her cry out. "Let go for me. I want to feel you come on my tongue."
I feel the wave crest. Her body tenses, her thighs clamp around my head—and then I stop.
I pull my mouth away, my fingers going still inside her.
"No!" she gasps, a sound of pure frustration and desperation. Her eyes fly open, wild and pleading. "Nathan, please, I was so close..."
"I know," I say, my voice a low, possessive growl. I kiss the inside of her thigh, a soft, apologetic touch that is anything but. "But not yet. I want to savor this. I want to savor you."
I wait until her breathing slows, until the edge of her orgasm recedes, leaving her trembling and needy.
Then I begin again. Slower this time. More torturous.
My tongue flicks, my fingers curl, bringing her right back to the brink.
I can feel the tension coiling in her belly, tighter and tighter.
She's moaning my name like a prayer, her nails digging into my scalp.
"Please, Nathan, please, I can't... I need..."
"Tell me what you need."
"You. I need you. Please, let me come."
The raw need in her voice is my undoing. It’s the most powerful thing I’ve ever heard. I give her what she wants. I latch onto her clit and suck hard while my fingers pump into her, relentless and demanding.
The orgasm rips through her. It’s not a gentle wave; it’s a violent, shuddering riptide that pulls her under.
She screams my name, a broken, beautiful sound, her body convulsing around my fingers, her taste flooding my senses.
I don't stop, drawing it out, lapping up every last tremor until she collapses, boneless and gasping for air.
I crawl up her body, my own need a painful, aching throb. Her eyes are closed, her face flushed, a soft, satisfied smile on her lips. She looks utterly wrecked. And she’s mine.
I position myself at her entrance. Her eyes flutter open, dazed and sated.
"Again?" she whispers, a hint of wonder in her voice.
"Again," I confirm.
And then I push inside her.
It's different.
It's not the frantic, desperate rutting I've come to expect. It's not the quick, brutal claiming that leaves us both empty and unsatisfied. It's something slower. Something deeper. Something that feels almost like making love.
Almost.
I move inside her with purpose. With intention.
I watch her face—the way her eyes flutter closed, the way her lips part, the way her breath comes in soft, desperate gasps.
I’m not chasing my own release; I’m chasing hers.
Every stroke is a deliberate, measured act of worship.
I rock into her, slow and deep, my eyes locked on hers.
It’s a gentle, relentless rhythm that builds a new kind of fire, one that burns slow and hot from the inside out.
She meets me stroke for stroke. She gives as much as she takes. Her hands roam my back, her legs wrap around my waist, pulling me deeper, and she lifts her hips to meet mine, a silent plea for more.
"Look at me," I say. "I want you to look at me."
She opens her eyes. They're brown, steady, the color of earth after rain. They look at me like I'm something other than a monster.
"Tell me who you belong to," I say, my voice thick with an emotion I can't name.
"I belong to myself."
It's the right answer. The only answer that matters.
"Tell me who you chose."
"You." Her voice is soft. "I chose you, Nathan."
The words hit me like a physical blow. I feel something crack inside my chest—something I've been trying to protect for years.
"I love you," I say. The words are ripped from me, raw and honest.
She doesn't say it back. She just holds me tighter, her body accepting mine, her gaze unwavering. She sees the crack, and she doesn’t look away. And I let her. I let her see it all.
Her second orgasm builds with a whisper, not a scream. It’s a slow, deep clenching that starts where we’re joined and radiates outward, making her tremble in my arms. A single tear escapes the corner of her eye, tracing a path down her temple.
And when I finally let go, it’s not with a roar, but with a shuddering groan, a total and utter surrender. I spill myself inside her, not as an act of conquest, but as a final, desperate offering. An unspoken promise. I am hers.
When we're finished, we lie tangled in each other. The world outside is silent. Inside, the only sound is the steady beat
Her head is on my chest. My arms are wrapped around her. The moon is setting outside the window, and the first hints of dawn are starting to creep across the sky.
"You should sleep," I say.
"I can't."
"Why not?"
"Because I don't know what happens next." She lifts her head and looks at me. "I don't know if you're going to keep your word."
"I don't break my word."
"You've broken everything else."
"I've never broken my word." I touch her face. "Not to you. Not ever."
She looks at me for a long moment. Then she nods.
"Okay," she says. "I believe you."
"Good." I pull her closer. "Now sleep."
She closes her eyes. Her breathing slows. She falls asleep in my arms.
And I lie there, staring at the ceiling, thinking about the future.
The empire. The bloodshed. The brother and father who will stand in my way.
They'll try to stop me. They'll try to destroy me. But they won't succeed. I won't let them.
Because I'm not the monster in this story.
I'm the hero.
And heroes don't lose.