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“Mm. You should be resting so you can heal. You shouldn’t exert yourself.” She blinks up at me sleepily, and I feel even worse about needing her help. But the alternative is to walk through the estate until I find Garrick or someone else to help me with my boxers.

Fucking bullshit.

I lean down, bracketing her face with my elbows and take her mouth, tasting and kissing her breathless. I don’t want to go, don’t want to leave this room at all.

That Truie is on board with this is obvious as her arms wind around my neck and her fingers sift through my hair, tugging hard and holding me close.

Little by little I slow the kissing, pull back to brush my words against her lips. “You didn’t think I exerted myself last night? Didn’t I give you what you were after while you were riding my cock?” I press my hips against her because I could easily go again and remind of just how hard she came. “I didn’t hear you telling me to rest while I was deep inside you. Didn’t hear you telling me to take it easy… and not exert myself.”

Her palm slides between us, landing in the center of my chest. She pushes me back as she sits up, hair a tousled mess, warm and sleepy but that sparkle in her coffee-colored eyes that’s her tell.

Her hands skate down my abs and curl around my cock, stroking, toying, playing. “You should let others cater to you until you’re healed.” Her tongue darts out, licking my tip, before she slides her luscious lips around me.

“Fuck, hummingbird” My head falls back as she works my dick. Slow and soft, hard and fast, all of it fucking life affirming.

It takes an embarrassingly short amount of time for her to make me come, but when she licks the last of my cum from her lips, a switch flips, and she’s all business.

A quick shower, my woman on her knees in front of me, her fingers tickling and teasing as she dresses me like I’m a fucking child and I am right back to a hard dick that I truly can’t do anything about. Trapped behind my belt, buttons, and zipper, my cock is likely not seeing the light of day until this shit with my cousin is done and put to rest.

Fucking stupid bullshit.

Makes me that much more angry and ready to take my frustrations out on the bastard.

“Go back to sleep, hummingbird. I’ll be back as soon as I’m done and then I can fuck you again.” I tuck Truie back into bed, and kiss her thoroughly, the promise of what’s to come imbued in every thrust of my tongue.

Getting out of my suite is fine, but as the door clicks behind me, I realize just how badly getting back in is going to suck without the use of my hands.

The inconvenience, the pain, fucking all of that simmers as I make my way to the entryway where McGill is waiting. Doors open and close behind me as I get ushered from the house, to the SUV, to the warehouse, and down into the workroom.

The insulation on the ceiling is soundproof, though we are so far away from any functional warehouses, no one knows what goes on down here. Christophe has generally kept it free of occupants, choosing to do more of his business above board, but today is special. After all, Desmond is family.

And the man of the hour is stripped down to his boxers and balancing on his knees, chain around his neck, hands cuffed behind him.

I believe in poetry, strongly when it’s applied to justice, so it’s not lost on me the similarities in his position and how he had me. Gaufre does good work.

I drop into the large leather desk chair that was brought down here just for me. Because I might talk a good game, but I’m wiped. Any energy I can save is going straight into reserve for Truie.

Desmond watches as I ease myself back into the chair, feet wide, elbows slung casually on each of the armrests.

Seconds tick by, silent and weighted, until the drop of self-preservation hits.

“Cousin, Tig, let me go. Please don’t… don’t do this, man.”

He spins himself so he’s facing me head-on, balancing on knees that just barely touch the floor. His neck straining where the chain holds his back straight and his chin tall. He looks pitiful.

I could feel bad. I could show him some mercy.

But I don’t.

“Some nerve, asking me for leniency, Des. Some fucking nerve.” My tone is calm, detached. Almost dispassionate, though passion is the driving force behind this.

“W-we’re family. You… you… Look man, I didn’t have a choice. I had to take you and⁠—”

“Bullshit.”

“What? No, I’m… I didn’t mean⁠—”

“Bullshit, again.” I take my time staring at him, spinning up his mind and wearing down his resolve.