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Timothy collapses over me, forehead pressed to mine, still buried deep. His body trembles slightly against mine. I wrap my arms around his back, holding him to me even as tears slip down my cheeks, knowing that whatever comes next may change everything.
26
Timothy
I walk into the kitchen and find Damon already there, sitting at the large center island with a half-eaten pie set in the middle of the table and a generous slice on his plate. The kitchen is one of my favorite rooms in the house–top-of-the-line features but warm, with dark granite countertops, custom walnut cabinetry, and a massive work table in the center that Mrs. Willet uses for everything from baking to organizing the household. Soft overhead lighting casts a golden glow over the space, making it feel lived-in despite its luxury.
I head straight for the refrigerator, open the freezer, and pull out an ice pack. I press it against the still-healing scar on my chest, and I let out a low groan of relief.
“Fuck, that feels good,” I sigh, leaning back against the counter for a moment before moving to sit across from him.
Damon doesn’t look up right away. He takes another bite of pie, chewing slowly.
“She’s asleep,” I tell him, adjusting the ice pack.
He nods. “She should be. You fucked the life right out of her.”
“I was pissed,” I mutter. “She pushed me—”
He cuts me off with a small shrug. “She wanted it.”
“You sure about that?” I have nail marks on my back from carrying her into my room.
“Yes.” He stabs another piece of Mrs. Willet’s flaky crust with his fork. “I would’ve stopped it if she hadn’t.”
It’s a simple statement, but it carries the weight of real power. I’m not used to this shift–sitting in my own kitchen while a college student speaks like the man in charge. Fuck–as the man in charge. No maybe about it. At the same time, we’re here in my house, eating my food, the two of us facing each other like this. It feels surreal.
And a little dangerous.
“Is that why you were watching? To make sure she was okay?” I smirk, fully aware that I’m pushing buttons. “Or is that how you plan on ruling as King? Watching the Baroness fuck other men?”
The clatter of his fork rings through the room and he sits back, eyeing me, the letters of his tattoo mocking me. “She’s here because I allowed it–not because you deserve it. Not after shutting her out after she sat by your side at the hospital, making sure each and every one of your goddamn needs were taken care of.”
“So you brought her here for a pity fuck. To make me feel big and strong again, is that it?” I toss the ice pack across the room where it lands in the sink with a thud. “I don’t need your sympathy.”
“It’s not about sympathy, Timothy. It’s about you showing that girl respect–and I’m not talking about fucking her–although you’re right, I’ll always be there to make sure no one hurts her.” He spreads his palm flat on the table, the ring shining from the overhead light. “I’m talking about treating her the way your wife deserves to be treated. Like a fucking queen and if you don’t, yeah, you’ll have to answer to me.”
We stare at one another for a long beat and as annoyed as I am at the fact this kid is wearing my ring–my crown–I know it’s for the best. Beta Rho needs a strong leader, and after this little display of authority, I have no doubt DK is up for the job.
“She said you’re doing a good job,” I admit, cutting the tension. I reach for the pie dish and cut myself a slice. “And since I haven’t said it, I appreciate you taking on the role. I know it isn’t easy, especially at a time like this.”
Damon watches me for a moment, like he’s trying to decide if I’m laying a trap, before answering. “We’re doing what we can. The best we can, I guess. But we haven’t made any real progress outside of cleaning house.” He picks back up his fork and scrapes up some of the gooey filling. “Arianette’s focused on her recital. Hunter’s got some secret project he’s been obsessing over. I’m cleaning up messes that don’t even belong to us.” He pauses. “The tunnel system is too complex for us to navigate properly. The leads have all dried up, and the Guardian has gone mostly quiet… but they’re still out there.”
He tells me about the hex bag Ares brought out of the woods. An unsettling feeling burns in my gut.
“So yeah,” he finishes, “I guess I’m holding it together. But Forsyth needs more than that.”
“I’m not sure that’s the life for me anymore.”
Damon’s fork pauses halfway to his mouth. “Why not? Because you almost fucking died?” He drags the collar of his shirt down, revealing the ugly, gnarled scar across his throat. “You’re a Baron. Memento fucking mori.”
The words hit hard–as they should. Twice today my courage has been called out by people who don’t understand the life I’ve lived–or the things I’ve done. I lean forward.
“I spent my whole life trying to defeat death,” I say quietly. “I saw so much of it. In my first years as king, the town was still in shock from the terror of the Forsyth Carver and the bodies he left discarded like trash in the woods. Then there was the insanity inside my own house with Clive, Benji, and Amber. Later, it was the rise of Scratch tearing through the streets and South Side’s nonstop territorial bloodbaths while the Dukes added fuel to the fire by supplying guns to the highest bidder.” I rub my jaw. “Forsyth is an evil place, Damon. All of my work with the Barons has been to keep the balance–to maintain some kind of natural order. To outweigh the carnage committed by the other organizations while they battle to be on top.”
Damon quietly considers what I’m saying and says, “That’s a big fucking weight.”
“Do you know why the Barons have no defined territory?” I ask quietly.
