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ADRIAN

I didn’t remember what it was like to kill my father.

Not in the moment, just the feeling that came after.

Like being stuck underwater for so long you were close to accepting death, only to pop up at the last second and take a large gulp of air.

The realization that he was gone was that air.

Relief and freedom all rolled up in one.

Except I wasn’t really free. Not until Tate joined him and I couldn’t get rid of big brother without risking losing the woman I loved.

It wasn’t like being stuck between a rock and a hard place.

It was like being spit-roasted over a fire.

The farther you moved away from the flames the deeper you drove the stakes, and the closer you got, the more you felt the burn.

Either way, you were suspended there. In agony, until one or the other did you in.

Then again, it was hard to remember something that didn’t exactly happen. Because I didn’t actually kill the old man. The gravediggers did. Or maybe the real culprit was all the dirt they piled on top of him.

I stood at the edge of the eight-by-four hole, the weight of my shoes sending a few loose clumps of dirt toppling inside, and gestured a hand at the two men standing beside the casket. Signaling for them to pry it open wide enough to have the fucker’s dead eyes staring back at me.

He didn’t get the luxury of resting easy. Of dying easy either. Which was why I went to the trouble of having him buried alive. Injecting him with a cocktail of sedatives and paralytics that kept his heart beat slowing but not stopping. Paying the ME and a couple of morticians for their silence.

They were happy to do it too. Happy for all the work I promised them in the future.

All the bodies I planned to store in their freezers until I had Briarwood fully operational again.

My little lamb had been right when she said I was responsible for getting their doors closed.

But she was wrong if she thought that shit was permanent.

Hare and Burke might have been a few spots over from where I was standing. Or at least what was left of them was. But I had plans, and now that the old man was done paying for med school, I had the actions to back ?em up.

I glared at his lifeless face for a few moments longer, rolling the eye caps around the palm of my hand before pocketing them.

I’d removed those myself, ensuring the old fuck had nothing to look at but the overpriced satin that lined the underside of his casket.

And then I watched them shovel pounds of dirt on top.

Digging him back up a few hours later so I could see it myself.

See the way his face had contorted after the cocktail began to wear off and the only thing he could do was scream and claw and cry out for help that wasn’t coming.

And now that I was sure it was over, sure that he’d rot in that hole, I could move on with everything else I had in mind for myself. Everything I had in mind for Briarwood.

You’d think it would get to me. Make me angry or bitter.

All the years of seeing them together. Knowing he touched her whenever he felt the urge.

Knowing she’d let him because it was her wifely duty.

Or the more likely reason: because she knew it irritated me.

But I wasn’t bitter. I was intrigued. Obsessed. Inspired.

I pressed send on my latest email, encrypted thanks to the tech genius now under my employ, and pushed back in my office chair. She wouldn’t answer me. But it didn’t matter because she would read it. And I would receive a notification the moment she did.

Are you sleeping well, Marisela? You seemed tired at breakfast today. It’s his snoring again, isn’t it? I know he isn’t keeping you up in other ways. Big brother never did have much stamina .

How do I know, you may ask? Those walls have ears, princesa. It’s how I also know you requested separate bedrooms. Is that your way of asking me to join you?

Yours,

AL

My computer dinged. A little open icon popped up on my screen and I grinned.

Picturing her face. The way her cheeks would heat up and turn a shade darker, how she would try to hide it even if she was alone.

Biting the inside of her cheek and pressing her lips together to keep from smiling.

Because god forbid my little lamb give into her urges.

The same urges that had me loosening my belt buckle and reaching a hand inside my boxers. My legs spread wide under my desk as I remembered the way those lips sucked me off. The perfect balance of tongue and teeth and throat. Of suction and saliva.

I gripped my cock tighter in my palm, stroking up and down until it was throbbing. Begging to be inside her again. To fuck her until she was screaming my name. My name, not his.

My own hand was never enough. But envisioning hers? It had me fucking my palm like I was a goddamn teenager again. Clenching my ass cheeks, lifting off the seat, and meeting my wrist thrust for thrust.

I used my free arm to fumble around with the desk drawer—I didn’t have to stop to find what I was looking for—swiped up the mask and brought it to my nose.

Breathing the scent of her cunt deep into my lungs while a phantom hand continued to work my cock.

I could almost feel her. Almost taste her.

Though I was afraid to try and accidentally lick it clean.

The chair continued to shake and squeak with my movements, one palm pressing the leather almost flush against my face at the same time the other stroked me from base to tip. From tip to base again.

And then I was coming, drenching the underside of my desk and the crotch of my pants with everything I’d saved up for her.

The woman who was mine and wasn’t. Yet.