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Lock your bedroom window. Third floor isn't as secure as you think.

I bolt upright, scrambling to check.

The window is unlocked.

I know I locked it before bed—I always do.

My hands shake as I secure it and text back.

Me:

Stay the fuck away from my apartment

Unknown Number:

Just keeping you safe, little wolf. Sleep well.

Little wolf… which means Doran.

He’s in my head, and to be honest, I don’t sleep well at all.

By morning, I’m exhausted as all hell, strung out on anxiety and way too much coffee.

"I can't do this," Dalla says, pacing my small kitchen. "I need to see Mom."

"Mom's too close to Dad. We need some space before everything goes to shit on Monday." I'm already packing a bag, throwing in clothes like we're fleeing. Maybe we are. "We're going to Everly's."

The two-and-a-half-hour drive feels both endless and too short.

Dalla drives because my hands won't stop shaking, and I swear every black car is following us.

We stop for gas halfway, and I'm certain I spot one of Doran's men by the pump.

Dalla looks over to me and grabs my hand. "You're being paranoid."

"Am I though?"

I think about what she’s saying to me, but the truth is we don’t know anything about Doran or his family besides the obvious: Doran’s the son of Aleksandr Volkolv—with ties to the Russian Bratva, and Greer Mackenzie, who happens to be the head of the Irish mafia’s little sister.

We don’t really say much else the rest of the ride, because all of this is a lot to unpack emotionally.

Everly's house appears like an oasis of normalcy—suburban street, yard with toys scattered across it, the kind of life that feels impossible after last night.

She's in the front garden with Eira and Boden, her belly swollen wide under a sundress with baby number three.

Eira crashes into our legs, blonde curls wild. "Aunt Rev! Aunt Dalla!"

The simple joy of a five-year-old's greeting nearly breaks me.

"Hey, baby girl." I scoop her up, burying my face in her hair that smells like sunshine and innocence.

Everly takes one look at our faces and her expression shifts. "Regnor? Can you take Eira for a bit?"

He appears from the garage, oil on his hands, but his eyes are already reading the situation. "Come on, princess. Let's work on the bike."

"But I wanna stay with?—"

"I'll let you help with the engine," he bribes, and she's gone.

Inside, Everly makes tea—her solution for everything—and waits.

The story spills out in a rush: Dad calling and wanting us back at the clubhouse, Doran's been watching us, how he showed us the photos, how he told me about the window.

"He's already started the possession game," she says when I finish.

"This is different from Dylan," I protest. "This is?—"

"More honest, maybe. But the same principle." She touches her belly absently. "The difference is, you know what he is from the start. That's power you have in your arsenal."

"How is knowing I'm trapped supposed to be power?"

"Because you're not trapped. You're negotiating." She leans forward. "He's been waiting five years, Rev. That's not just an obligation. That's obsession. And obsession can be leveraged."

Regnor joins us after putting Eira down for her nap. "The Culebra situation is worse than they're telling you. Two prospects got jumped last week. One's still in the hospital."

"Why didn't Dad?—"

"Because he's trying to handle it without admitting he needs the Irish." His expression is grim. "But Doran's right about one thing—you and Dalla are vulnerable."

My phone buzzes.

Doran:

Dinner's still at 8. I'll send a car.

Me:

I'm not in Jacksonville

Doran:

I know. The car will pick you up at Everly's at 7:30

The blood drains from my face. Dalla reads over my shoulder and gasps.

"How does he?—"

"Man's got resources," Regnor says. "This is what you're dealing with."

"You don't have to go," Everly says.

"Yes, I do. But not on his terms." I stand, decision made. "I'm driving myself. Meeting him at a restaurant, not his penthouse. I need to start to figure this out."

"I'm coming with you," Dalla says immediately.

I end up shooting him a text, requesting the address, letting him know I’m driving myself. "No. This is between him and me. He chose me, Dalla."

Everly disappears and returns with a red sweater. "If you're doing this, do it right."

The drive back to Jacksonville feels like driving toward a storm.

I end up calling Mom on the way.

"Baby, you don't have to?—"

"Yes, Mom. I do. I'm handling it, and honestly, we all know there’s no choice. I have to go through with this, for the good of the club. But I’m not going to make it easy for him."

"Good. Don’t." Mom and I talk for a little while longer until she has to get off the phone, and eventually I pull up to the restaurant.

It’s high-end, and very much public, which settles my nerves a bit.

But when I arrive, of course we’re not eating out with everyone else.

Why would I expect that?

He changed the reservation to a private room, because Doran doesn't follow anyone else's rules.

He stands when I enter, old-world manners that feel like he’s mocking me.

He’s in a suit now, perfectly tailored, making him look like what he is—dual mafia royalty.

"You're late."

"You're predictable."

His smile is appreciative. "Red suits you."

"You said we had things to discuss." I sit before he can pull out my chair. "So let's discuss them."

"Straight to business. I like that about you." He signals the waiter, who pours wine I don't touch. "The marriage will happen within the month. You'll finish your semester, then transfer to whatever law school is most convenient to my operations."

"No."

He pauses, glass halfway to his lips. "No?"

"I have conditions." I pull out my phone, where I've typed them up like the contracts I've been studying. "First, I want to finish my law degree at UF. It’s non-negotiable. Second, I maintain my own residence until the degree is complete. Third?—"

"Done."

I blink. "What?"

"All of it. Done." He sets down his glass. "What else?"

"That's... that's it?"

"Too easy?" His smile is sharp. "You expected a fight. Expected me to rage about obedient wives and knowing your place."

"I expected?—"

"I don't need an obedient wife, Revna." He leans back, studying me. "I need a partner. Someone smart enough to understand what we're building. Strong enough to stand beside me when things get bloody. Legal expertise is just a bonus."

"What exactly are we building?"

"A bloody empire." The words hangs between us like a promise and a threat. "Florida's wide open since the Patriot fell. Someone's going to fill that vacuum. Better it be us than another cartel, even if those new Culebra fuckers try."

"Us," I repeat.

"Us." He reaches across the table, and I let him take my hand.

His thumb brushes over my knuckles, and I hate that it makes my pulse race. "Five years I've waited. Not because I had to. Because you were worth waiting for. And I knew I wanted you. Dalla is okay, but I saw the fire in your eyes and if I was going to marry either of you, it was always you."

"You don't know me."

"I know you’re bound to graduate summa cum laude. I know you volunteer at the legal aid clinic. I know you broke Kevin Morrison's nose when he grabbed your ass at a party freshman year." His grip tightens slightly. "I know you're brilliant and fierce and exactly what I need."

"What you need," I echo. "What about what I need?"

"Tell me."

The words stick in my throat because what I need is freedom, choice, a life that's mine.

But that's not on the table. Never was.

"Protection," I say finally. "For my family. For Dalla especially."

"Done."

"Power. Real power, not just being your ornament."

Doran smirks, actually fucking smirks at me. "I wouldn't waste you as an ornament."

"And if I say no to all of this?"

His hand tightens on mine, not painful but inescapable. "Then the cartel makes their move. Your father's alliance weakens. People die." He leans forward. "But we both know you're not saying no. You're too smart for that."

"You're so sure."

"I've had five years to be sure." He releases my hand. "Monday, we announce the engagement. The wedding will be on the fifth of July. Your father wants it done before the cartel can regroup."

"That's four weeks away."

"Problem?"

I think about the acceptance letter in my pocket. The life I'd planned. The choice that was never really mine.

"No," I say quietly. "No problem."

"Good." He stands, throws too much money on the table. "I'll drive you back to Everly's."

"I have my car."

"Which will be delivered back to you in the morning." He's already moving, expecting me to follow.

And God help me, I do.

His car is exactly what I'd expect—black, expensive, bulletproof glass.

The interior smells like leather and that cologne that scrambled my brain earlier.

"Your sister," he says as we drive. "She's pre-med?"

"Yes."

"I'll arrange additional security. Discreet. She won't even know they're there."

"Until they interfere with her life like you did mine."

"I only interfered when necessary, little wolf." He glances at me. "That boy last night wasn't the first to be warned off."

"I know." The words taste bitter. "How many?"

"Twelve."

"Twelve." I laugh, but it's hollow. "In five years, you scared off twelve men."

"Thirteen if you count Professor Williams, but that was more of a public service." At my shocked look, he shrugs. "He had a reputation with female students. You deserved better."

"I deserved a choice."

"You have choices." We're on the highway now, Jacksonville falling behind. "Just not that one."

"Because I'm yours."

"Because you've been mine since your father shook hands with my uncle." He says it simply, like it's fact, not possession. "Fighting it just wastes energy we could use for better things."

"Like building your empire."

"Our empire," he corrects. "Everything I have becomes yours too. That's what marriage means."

"In your world."

"In every world that matters."

We drive in silence until Everly's house appears.

He parks but doesn't turn off the engine.

"One more thing," he says, pulling out a small box. "If we're doing this, we're doing it right."

The ring is perfect—not huge and flashy like I'd expect from Bratva money, but elegant.

Art deco style with a center sapphire surrounded by diamonds.

It's beautiful and I hate that I love it.

"Blue," I murmur.

"I thought it would compliment your eyes," He takes it from the box. "Wear it Monday. Let everyone know this is real."

"It's not real. It's a business arrangement."

"Is it?" He takes my hand, slides the ring on.

It fits perfectly because of course it does. "Five years of watching. Of waiting. Of wanting. Feels pretty real to me."

"Wanting," I repeat.

"You think I haven't imagined this?" His thumb brushes over the ring, over my skin. "Having you beside me. Having you under me. Having you?—"

"Stop." My face burns.

"Why? We're getting married. These are things we should discuss." He leans closer. "Unless you plan to have a celibate marriage?"

"I plan to have a practical marriage."

"Practical." He tastes the word like wine. "We'll see how long that lasts."

I reach for the door, but his hand on my arm stops me.

"Revna." My name in his mouth is a dangerous thing.

"Whatever you think this is, whatever you think I am—I take care of what's mine.

You'll never want for anything. Never fear anything.

Never be less than you are. But get that biker boy out of your system.

Be free this weekend, but afterward, you are mine and I am yours. "