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He studies me for a long moment, and I see him make the decision not to push. It’s progress from the kid who used to needle me relentlessly, desperate for any scrap of attention.

“Well, when you’re ready, I want to meet the woman who’s got my big brother building art studios and sneaking out at dawn.” He claps me on the shoulder as he passes. “I’ll grab those photos and get out of your hair.”

I follow him to our mother’s room, standing in the doorway while he digs through boxes I haven’t opened in three years. He pulls out a manila envelope, checking the contents before tucking it under his arm.

“Thanks for this,” he says, squeezing past me. “The interview’s a big deal. They want the whole story of where we came from, how we both ended up in the military, and the reunion. Human interest stuff.”

“Just remember operational security. Nothing specific about missions or?—”

“I know, I know.” He rolls his eyes. “This isn’t my first media rodeo. Vega’s got me media trained within an inch of my life.”

Vega. Always comes back to fucking Vega.

We walk to the front door together, Ben still buzzing with excitement about his career trajectory. I want to be happy for him. I am happy for him. But the shadow of what’s coming makes everything complicated.

“Hey,” he says, turning at the door. “Whatever’s going on with you and this mystery woman, I hope it works out. You deserve something good, Reign.”

The sincerity in his voice catches me off guard. “Thanks.”

“And when you’re ready to talk about it, I’m here. We might not have been close growing up, but we’re brothers. That means something.”

He’s gone before I can respond, his Jeep kicking up dust as he navigates down the mountain road. I stand in the doorway long after he’s disappeared, coffee growing cold in my hand.

Brothers. Family. Complications I didn’t factor into my plans for Audrey.

But it doesn’t matter. Nothing matters except ensuring she never has to wear Vega’s ring again. If that costs me my relationship with Ben, so be it. Some things are worth any price.

I close the door and head for my office. Three days to finalize everything. Three days to prepare for war.

The cabin feels too fucking quiet without her.

I’ve been pacing for the last hour, checking my phone every few minutes like some lovesick teenager.

Seven-thirty. She should be back at her hotel by now, done with whatever wedding torture her stepmother subjected her to today.

My fingers itch to dial her number, but I force myself to wait.

Let her get settled. Let her eat dinner.

Let her think she has a moment to breathe before I remind her who she belongs to.

The whiskey in my glass does nothing to dull the edge of need scraping at my insides.

Twenty-four hours since I left her bed, and my body is already going through withdrawal.

I can still smell her on my skin despite the shower.

Still feel the phantom pressure of her curves pressed against me.

Still hear the soft sounds she made when I pushed inside her.

Fuck it. I’m calling.

She answers on the second ring, slightly breathless. “Reign?”

Just her voice saying my name sends heat straight to my cock. “Hey, baby. You alone?”

“Yes.” A pause, then softer, “I was hoping you’d call.”

“Told you I would.” I settle into my leather chair, phone pressed to my ear like a lifeline. “Every night, remember?”

“I remember.” There’s rustling in the background, like she’s getting comfortable. “It’s good to hear your voice. Today was...”

“Tell me.” I close my eyes, picturing her in some sterile hotel room. Probably wearing one of those prim outfits her stepmother selects. But underneath, she’s all soft skin and desperate need. Just like me.

“Exhausting.” She sighs, and I hear the weight of performance in that single sound. “Wedding dress after wedding dress. Each one more elaborate than the last. Lucille insisted I try on at least twenty.”

“And?” My jaw clenches at the thought of her in wedding whites meant for another man.

“And they all felt like costumes.” Her voice drops. “Like I was playing dress-up for someone else’s life.”

Good. She’s starting to see the truth of it. “Because it is someone else’s life, baby. Not yours.”

“Reign...” There’s warning in her tone, but also longing.

“Tell me about the show. What else did they make you look at?”

She launches into descriptions of floral arrangements and table settings, her voice gaining animation as she mocks the overwrought displays.

I let her talk, content to listen, filing away details about what she hates.

Everything she describes sounds like the opposite of what I know she’d actually want.

Elaborate where she prefers simple. Formal where she craves authentic. Performance instead of truth.

“The worst part was the cake tasting,” she continues. “Fifteen different samples, and Lucille critiqued every single one. Too sweet, too dense, not elegant enough. I thought the baker was going to cry.”

“What did you actually like?”

She pauses, surprised by the question. “The lemon one. It was simple but perfect. Of course, Lucille immediately vetoed it.”

I make a mental note. Lemon cake. Simple. Real. Like her.

“Where are you now?” I ask, my voice dropping to that tone I know affects her.

“In my hotel room.” Her breath catches slightly. “Sitting on the bed.”

“What are you wearing?”

“Reign.” Now there’s definite breathlessness in her voice. “You can’t just?—”

“I can, and I will.” I shift in my chair, already half-hard from just talking to her. “Answer the question, baby. What are you wearing?”

A pause. Then, quietly, “The dress from dinner. Navy blue. Lucille picked it.”

“Take it off.”

“What?” Her voice spikes higher.

“You heard me.” I keep my tone level, commanding. “I don’t want you in clothes she chose while you’re talking to me. Take it off.”

I hear her quick intake of breath, then rustling fabric. My cock hardens fully, pressing against my jeans as I picture her obeying. Always so good for me, even when she pretends to resist.

“It’s off,” she whispers.

“Good girl.” The praise makes her breath hitch. “Now, tell me what you’re wearing underneath.”

“White lace.” Her voice has gone throaty. “Matching set.”

“Fuck.” The image of her in white lace nearly undoes me. “Touch yourself for me.”

“Reign, I don’t?—”

“Yes, you do.” I free my cock from my jeans, already leaking. “You’re going to touch yourself and tell me exactly how it feels. Starting with those perfect tits I can’t stop thinking about.”

Her soft moan tells me she’s obeying. “Okay.”

“Tell me.” I wrap my hand around my length, stroking slowly. “Tell me what you’re doing.”

“I’m...I’m touching my breasts through the lace.” Her breathing accelerates. “Thinking about your hands. How rough they were. How good they felt.”

“Pinch your nipples.” My voice has gone gravelly. “The way I did last night.”

Her sharp gasp shoots straight through me. “Oh, god.”

“That’s it, baby. Now slide your hand down. Are you wet for me?”

“Yes.” The admission comes out as a whimper. “So wet.”

“Good. Push your panties aside and touch yourself. Pretend it’s my fingers.”

The sounds she makes as she follows my commands have me stroking faster. I can picture her spread out on some generic hotel bed, face flushed, body arching as she chases pleasure. But it’s not enough. Won’t be enough until she’s back in my arms.

“Tell me what you’re thinking about,” I demand.

“You.” No hesitation. “Your mouth on me. Your hands. The way you felt inside me.”

“How many fingers are you using?”

“Two.” Her breath catches. “But it’s not...it’s not the same.”

“I know, baby. Nothing’s the same as my cock filling you up.” My hand moves faster, chasing my own release. “Add another finger. Fuck yourself the way I would.”

Her moan is pure sex, desperate and needy. I can hear the wet sounds of her fingers working, can practically taste her arousal on my tongue.

“Are you close?” I ask, though I can tell from her breathing that she is.

“Yes. Reign, I’m?—”

“Come for me.” It’s an order, not a request. “Come with my name on your lips.”

She shatters with a cry that makes me follow immediately after. My release spurts over my hand as I groan her name, wishing desperately I was filling her instead of wasting it.

For several moments, we just breathe together across the miles. The connection between us pulses even through the phone, undeniable and overwhelming.

“I miss you,” she whispers finally, vulnerability clear in her voice.

“I know, baby. Two more days.” I clean myself up one-handed, not ready to break our connection. “I have a surprise for you when you get back.”

“What kind of surprise?” There’s sleepy curiosity in her tone now, the post-orgasm haze softening her edges.

“The kind you have to wait for.” I can’t help but smile at her small sound of protest. “I’ll pick you up Saturday morning. No arguments.”

“Bossy.” But she’s smiling, too; I can hear it.

“You love it.” And she does. She loves when I take control, when I remove the burden of choice from her shoulders. “Get some sleep, baby. Dream of me.”

“Always do.” The admission is soft, honest. “Goodnight, Reign.”

“Night, Audrey.”

I end the call but remain in my chair, staring at the phone like it might transport me to her. Two more days of this torture. Two more days of her playing perfect daughter while I finalize the pieces that will free her.

Unable to sit still, I push myself up and walk to the guest room—her studio. The space is nearly complete now. New windows installed to capture the morning light. Walls painted a soft white that won’t compete with her art. Built-in storage for supplies. Everything an artist could need to create.

I stand in the doorway, imagining her here. Paint-stained fingers. Hair pulled back in a messy bun. That look of concentration she gets when she’s focused on something she loves. This is what I can give her—not just freedom from Vega, but freedom to be herself.

Saturday can’t come fast enough.