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My shirt hangs loose on Rhea’s frame as she climbs out of the Tesla, the fabric swallowing her smaller form but somehow making her look more mine than ever.

The sleeves dangle past her fingertips, and she has to push them up to find her keys, but she doesn’t complain.

Just pulls the collar closer to her neck, breathing in my scent like it’s a lifeline.

Perfect.

The satisfaction settles deep in my chest, warm and expansive, as I watch her disappear through the apartment building’s entrance.

She moves differently now—not with the rigid defiance of before, but with something softer, more accepting.

The fight has gone out of her, replaced by a surrender so complete it makes my cock twitch just thinking about it.

She knows what I am now. What I’m capable of. And she chose to stay anyway.

Chose me anyway.

My fingers drum against the steering wheel in a rhythm that matches my pulse as I pull away from her building.

The leather is still warm from where she sat, still carries the faint trace of her perfume mixed with the earthier scent of what we did in the woods.

I roll down the windows slightly, letting the cool night air carry that intoxicating combination straight to my lungs.

Mine. Completely, irrevocably mine.

The phone buzzes against my thigh, pulling me from the pleasant haze of possession. I glance down at the screen, expecting maybe a text from Rhea, already missing me, already needing reassurance.

Instead, it’s Noah. Three words that make my blood turn to ice: “Chamber. Now. Bring the girl.”

My hands tighten on the wheel, knuckles going white as the implications crash over me. Emergency meetings are rare, and ones that require Rhea’s presence are unheard of. Something has gone wrong. Badly wrong.

I make a U-turn at the next light, my foot heavier on the accelerator than it needs to be.

The Tesla responds with silent authority, eating up the distance between Rhea’s apartment and the mansion with predatory efficiency.

But even as I drive, my mind is already racing ahead, calculating variables, preparing for whatever crisis has summoned us.

Rhea doesn’t need to know. Not yet. Whatever this is, I’ll handle it. That’s what I do—I handle things. I eliminate problems. I protect what’s mine.

The mansion looms against the night sky as I pull up the gravel drive, more cars scattered across the usually empty lot than I’ve ever seen at one time. Expensive cars.

My stomach drops as I recognize the vehicles. This isn’t just the core Reapers. This is everyone. Extended members, legacy kids, the ones who usually only show up for initiation ceremonies and the occasional favor exchange.

If they’re all here, we’re in deep shit.

The basement air hits me like a physical weight as I descend the familiar stairs.

Thick with tension and the cologne of scared rich boys trying to maintain their facades of control.

The chamber that usually holds six or seven of us is packed wall to wall with faces I recognize from the hockey team, from campus, from family gatherings, from newspaper society pages.

Marcus Whitfield stands near the far wall, his usual smirk replaced by something tight and anxious. His father owns half the city council, and Marcus himself has never met a problem he couldn’t buy his way out of. Seeing him sweat is almost as unsettling as the emergency text.

James Lockwood hovers near the entrance, phone clutched in one manicured hand like a lifeline.

His mother sits on the state supreme court, and James has been trading on that connection since prep school.

The fact that he’s here, looking like he’s about to vomit, tells me everything I need to know about how serious this is.

All around the room, familiar faces wear unfamiliar expressions of fear. These boys—these men—are used to being untouchable. Used to consequences being things that happen to other people, lesser people. The sight of them reduced to panic sends something cold and sharp through my chest.

Noah stands at the center of it all, his usual commanding presence diminished by the weight of whatever news he’s carrying. When he sees me, his jaw tightens, and I can read the exhaustion in every line of his body.

“Where’s the girl?” he asks without preamble.

“Safe,” I reply, positioning myself where I can see every face in the room. “What’s the situation?”

Noah’s eyes sweep the assembled crowd before settling back on me. “The FBI contacted my father’s office this morning. They’re not buying the accidental death story anymore.”

I watch expensive shoes shuffle against concrete, watch manicured hands run through perfectly styled hair. The scent of fear-sweat begins to overpower the cologne.

“Someone talked,” Noah continues, his voice cutting through the murmur of panic that rises from the group. “They’ve questioned every fraternity member, every hockey player, every partygoer, anyone who so much as knew Jack’s name. The investigation has shifted from local police to federal.”

Marcus steps forward, his face pale beneath his tan. “They’re looking for financial connections, patterns. My dad’s already getting pressure from his business partners. People are asking questions about contributions, about favors, about why certain cases get dropped.”

The cold in my chest spreads outward, creeping through my veins like poison.

This isn’t just about Jack anymore. This isn’t just about one dead rapist who got what he deserved.

The Reapers have been operating for decades—money laundering through family businesses, murder for hire disguised as accidents, covering up their members’ crimes with bought judges and bribed officials.

If the investigation expands, if they start pulling threads, everyone in this room goes down. And their families with them.

“They find one connection,” says another voice from the back of the room—Timothy something, whose father runs the largest construction company in three states—”they’ll pull the whole thing apart. Everything we’ve built, everything our fathers built, it all falls.”

The murmur grows louder, fear bleeding into the voices around me.

These boys have never faced real consequences for anything in their lives.

The possibility of federal prison, of seeing their family empires crumble, of losing everything they’ve been handed since birth—it’s breaking them down to their core.

“Then what’s the solution?” The voice belongs to David Sun, whose family owns a chain of luxury hotels and has connections that stretch to Beijing. “Because my father made it very clear that if this goes federal, I’m on my own.”

More voices join in, a chorus of panic and blame and desperate suggestions. They’re fragmenting, turning on each other like animals backed into a corner. In moments like this, leadership either emerges or everything falls apart.

“We frame the girl,” Marcus says suddenly, his voice cutting through the chaos. “She’s the obvious suspect. We plant evidence, make it look like she planned the whole thing. She goes down, we walk away clean.”

Several heads nod around the room, desperation making them grab at any solution that doesn’t involve consequences for themselves. The idea spreads like wildfire through the group, gathering momentum with each whispered agreement.

“Frame her, and this all goes away,” someone adds. “One girl versus all of us? Easy choice.”

The cold in my chest transforms into something much hotter, much more dangerous. My vision narrows to a red-tinged tunnel as rage builds behind my ribs like a living thing. They want to sacrifice Rhea to save their own skin. They want to throw my dove to the wolves and walk away whistling.

“Blame her,” I say, my voice low and deadly calm, “and you’re all dead.”

The room goes silent. Completely, utterly silent. Even the sound of breathing seems muted as every eye in the chamber turns to me. I can feel their shock, their fear, radiating outward like heat from a furnace.

“She’s not the problem,” I continue, letting my gaze sweep across each face, making sure they understand exactly how serious I am. “The problem is we’ve gotten sloppy. Complacent. Too comfortable with our own invincibility.”

Noah steps forward, his expression unreadable. “Then what’s your solution, Thatcher? Because my father won’t protect me if this goes federal. None of our fathers will. We’re expendable if it means saving the larger organization.”

The truth of his words settles over the room like a shroud. For all their wealth and connections, for all their inherited power, they’re still just the next generation. Their fathers built this organization, and they’ll cut their own sons loose if necessary to preserve it.

But I’m not just anyone’s son. I’m a Van Doren. And Van Dorens don’t run from problems—we solve them.

“We get ahead of it,” I say, straightening to my full height, letting my presence fill the space around me. “All of us. Same story, same timeline, no contradictions. And we use our connections to bury it at the federal level.”

I begin to pace, my mind already working through the possibilities, the networks of influence and obligation that stretch from this basement to the highest levels of government.

“Agent Sarah Martinez owes my father a favor from the banking scandal in ‘98. She’s running point on financial crimes in the northeastern district.” I pause, letting that sink in. “Judge Harrison presided over the Morrison family’s tax case last year. He knows which side his bread is buttered on.”

More names flow from my memory, a catalog of corruption and compromise that spans decades. “Senator Williams has been taking contributions from Sun Industries for eight years. Congressman Bradley’s son goes to prep school on a scholarship funded by Whitfield Construction.”

With each name, each connection, I watch the panic in the room begin to recede, replaced by something closer to hope. These boys have grown up in this world of favors and obligations, of power traded like currency. They understand how the game is played.

“This works,” I continue, stopping in the center of the room, “or we all burn. And I mean all of us. Rhea included. So everyone better be committed.”

The words hang in the air like a threat and a promise combined. They want to survive this? Fine. But they’ll do it my way, with my rules, and they’ll protect what’s mine in the process.

Noah nods slowly, understanding passing between us like an electric current. “What do you need from us?”

“Complete loyalty. Total commitment. Anyone who breaks ranks, anyone who even thinks about throwing Rhea under the bus to save themselves—” I let the threat hang unfinished, my gaze sweeping the room one more time.

They get the message. All of them. I can see it in the way shoulders straighten, in the way eyes focus with new determination. The panic is still there, but it’s been channeled now, directed toward a common goal.

Protecting the organization. Protecting themselves.

As the meeting breaks up, as the expensive cars begin to disappear into the night, I remain in the chamber, letting the silence settle around me like armor. The satisfaction from earlier returns, but it’s different now—sharper, more complex.

Protecting Rhea now means protecting the entire Reaper organization. And that means making her truly one of us, binding her to this world so completely that separating her from it becomes impossible.

The thought sends a thrill through me, dark and possessive and perfect. She’ll be mine not just by choice now, but by necessity. Protected not just by my love, but by the weight of an entire criminal empire.

She wanted to know what she was agreeing to when she said she belonged to me.

Now she’s about to find out.

And I can’t wait to see her face when she realizes there’s no going back.

Not for any of us.