Chapter 18

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It's only ice cream, not the end of the world.

Briar

Lace snorts, stuffing a spoonful of what might be one hundred percent food dye in her mouth. She's had two bites of her ice cream, and her tongue is already depicting more colors than rainbows have. Pointing her chin at my two scoops of French vanilla, she says, "You are so basic."

My eyes roll as I take a seat at one of the small tables on the other side of the creamery lobby. "There is nothing wrong with vanilla." I smirk toward where Chip is guiding Rowan through ordering ice cream. "What do you want to bet Rowan gets butter pecan or pistachio?"

"He's gonna shock us and get strawberry." Lace's eyes narrow. "No. Birthday cake."

"I'll narrow my answer; he's getting butter pecan. Two thousand dollars to the winner. One thousand to you if he gets anything but."

Lace points her tiny green spoon at me. "You are hilarious if ya think I'm gonna fall for that. I don't gamble with the house." She sniffs. "I know better."

Finally, Rowan settles into the bright, plastic chair beside me with the kind of sigh that marks a great emotional ordeal. He scowls at his butter pecan ice cream cup while Chip sits across from him with a chocolate cherry cone. "House always wins," I murmur, and Rowan's furrowed attention lifts to find me.

A distinct, unspoken, "Now what?" gleams in his dark eyes, so I, kindly, demonstrate his next step by taking a bite of my vanilla.

With all the caution of a man who fears he's about to be poisoned, he lifts his minuscule, bright blue spoon to his mouth.

I smile. "So, now that we're all settled, what do we have to report? Lace?"

Rowan's posture hardens, and he casts me a wary look.

Tossing one leg over the other, leather pants creaking, Lace hunkers and sticks her spoon in her mouth, talking around it as she gestures vaguely Rowan's way. "The big guy's rackets could be more efficient. It's all too clear every ounce of weight fell into the big bucks, leaving the rest solely under-utilized. Leaps and bounds have been made internally, but it would be better if the person moving the parts weren't so allergic to change."

Rowan flinches.

"Understandable." I take another bite and look at Chip. "Do we have a solution?"

"Even after making Granger walk across the bridge and cutting the rest of his lackeys out, Veleno remains formidable in size. It's time to stop optimizing current resources and address making new deals." Chip taps his spoon to his lips, and his hazel eyes catch on Rowan for half a second. "What?"

"This isn't a secure location to discuss these matters," Rowan hisses.

"Sure it is. Right, Bobby?" I call to the man behind the ice cream counter.

Bobby grins, tugging his sleeve up his forearm to display the floral mark of my family. After a quick salute, he puts his sleeve back down in the same instant the front bell rings.

A mother juggling two crying toddlers makes her way to the display. A chorus of whining complaints fills the lobby as I beam. "See? Bobby's a friend of ours. Totally secure."

Rowan does not appear amused. But, I mean, when does he?

Grumpy as ever, he mutters, "You're telling me you have high-ranking officers who can be privy to knowledge concerning the intricacies of my business working at ice cream parlors?"

Now that strikes a nerve. Smile falling, I say, "Bobby's in the family, pet. Rosanera doesn't operate on rank. Family is family. If someone joins, they're willing to take bullets for their relatives. Anyone willing to go to war for me has earned my trust."

"And the mother?" he counters.

My eyes narrow. "I think she's a little too busy to care about what anyone else is doing. Take a breath, Rowan, before you piss me off."

"Please don't piss her off," Chip interjects.

Morose, Lace shakes her head. "We're still cleaning blood off the ceiling from the last time a guy pissed her off."

Huffing a breath, Rowan says, "You just do whatever you want, don't you?"

"Yes." My brow arches. "Yes, I literally do whatever I want, Rowan. Care to know why?"

Gaze falling on my lips, he murmurs, "Why?"

"No one can stop me." I take a breath. "So, really, I think the more important question is: who's stopping you? Your parents aren't here to control anything anymore. You stand at the helm of a lawless infrastructure. There is nothing you aren't allowed to do and very few people who can try to oppose you. Respect isn't something you earn. It's something you demand."

He scoffs, averting his eyes as he shovels a tiny glazed pecan into his mouth. "That's not right."

"Is it not? So you're saying you don't deserve respect unless you meet the unspoken standards of every person you come across and earn it?" My head tilts, and I wait a moment before rolling my eyes. "Grow up. You can spend lifetimes battling some people for what you deserve, or you can accept that those kinds of people don't belong in your life. You can spend lifetimes trying to prove yourself, or you can take hold of what you want with both hands." I stab my spoon into my cup and place my palm to his heart. "You are good, Rowan. You are deserving of respect, and you are allowed to trust your own motivations. Change isn't going to destroy you, and it's definitely not going to make things worse. Stop hesitating, relying on your number crunches, and over-explaining yourself to your subordinates, waiting for everyone to agree with you before you implement something. You do not need that validation."

"It's not about validation," he growls. "I cleared out what I couldn't compromise. Now, I don't want to be the tyrant my parents were. People deserve to know the truth behind what is asked of them."

"Rowan, for the love of—" I swear. "—you are the leader of a mafia. No one joins and expects the boss to listen to their feelings. You can care about your men and assert the kind of authority that fits your title. You are not your parents."

An ache stretches down my neck, and I realize that I'm clenching my jaw too tight, so I relax, take a breath, and pull my hand off him. "You aren't. You can't be. Not as long as you still have your beautiful soul." Turning to Chip, I say, "Get us a list of options for expansion. Rowan and I will review and implement whatever makes the most sense. What else is do we need to discuss?"

"I think our shower is leaking." Lace yawns.

"Simple enough. I'll text our guy."

From there, things devolve—per usual—into the casual conversation that tends to mark all my meetings with my underboss duo. Throughout it all, Rowan remains eerily quiet until we're back at The Casa.

Stretching as I enter our bedroom with him on my heels, I get my phone from my purse to text Randolph about the leaky pipe. Before I get the chance to find the right Randolph in my contacts, Rowan's large hand closes around my phone and chucks it across the room. It hits his bed—the one I've been sleeping in, not the cot quarantined in the corner beyond the couch where he's been sleeping—and falls onto a pillow. His fingers shackle my wrist, and my heart leaps as I turn to face him.

The solid pound of him kicking the door closed echos in my chest.

He backs me into the dresser, cages me against the wood.

"Pet?" I whisper.

"Not your pet, princess," he murmurs. His eyes search mine—ebony night, ink-dark pools. His palms plant firmly against my waist, and my blood heats to a boil.

In the corner beside us, Bugsy trills, singing. Feathery wingbeats dart about the cage. Bells chime when he knocks into his toys.

The noise turns to static in the background, a distant symphony beneath the hammer of my heart.

I swallow, wet my lips. "What—"

His hands squeeze, indenting my flesh with the awareness of them. "Both hands," he mutters. "That's what you said. I should stop trying to prove myself and take what I want with both hands."

Eyes wide, I watch his gaze peruse—my face, my neck, down to my waist.

I am wholly unprepared when his eyes find mine again. "What if I want you?"

My knees go weak, so I brace myself on the dresser, speechless.

I don't flirt and tempt guys just because it's fun. It's for work, manipulation, horrible, bad things that make Lace and Chip call me a monster before laughing because we're all the same kind of terrible. I never sacrifice myself to my victims. Before Rowan, I'd never so much as kissed any of the guys I've played for information. My mama taught me how to work my charms. My papa taught me how to keep men just one step away.

I've learned to be the timid beauty, the aloof vixen, the woman always just out of reach.

Because the men I'm usually working with? They're the real monsters, and real monsters don't deserve to touch me.

I don't deal with good guys. Broken ones, sure, but no one good, not when I manipulate them like this. Normally, it's a game. How many buttons do I have to push in order to get what I want without anyone being the wiser? How many narcissists can I blindside with a couple batting lashes? How many tears does it take to out-gaslight the gaslighter?

My reasons this time are…different.

Maybe I've crossed the line.

Maybe I don't care.

Rowan's lips graze my cheek, ever cautious. He curses into my skin. His hands…tremble. "Nothing to say?"

I can't let this happen. I know he's attracted to me. I know he's unused to being attracted to anyone. I reassured myself that even if he finds me physically appealing, his hatred of my character would keep things in check.

I guess…I was wrong.

What a rare and unpleasant experience.

"Talk to me," he says

"Rowan…" I whisper.

One of his hands glides up my side, igniting every nerve along the way. His fingers close around the back of my neck. His thumb caresses my cheek. He swears. Begins to pull away.

Before I understand what I've done, my hand is locked in the hem of his shirt. My mind goes blank. Logic is fleeting.

Something like relief flashes through the desperation in Rowan's eyes, then I'm gasping as his mouth settles at the base of my neck, kissing.

He swears. He nuzzles. His arms curl around me—tight—as he plants an open kiss to the dip between my collarbones. With a shudder, my back arches, and I exhale his name. Without warning, he catches the fragile word in his mouth.

He groans, and his fingers dig. My arms lift, and I bury my fist in his hair, my nails in his flesh. Gripping my hair, he pulls hard, thrusting my head back.

A gasp fills my chest, eliminating all the space between us..

He swears, pressed up against me, solid, confident, addicted already. "…name. Say my name, Briar."

I swallow against his lips, and he strokes my throat with his thumb. "Rowan," I whisper, even though I know I shouldn't. He's too kind, too sweet, too careful…

Too…

His hand closes fully around my neck. My eyes roll back in my skull.

"Stop me if I go too far, princess." His breath caresses my ear. "You can do that, can't you?"

Whatever sound I make, it's something like confirmation, so he kisses my cheek before he kisses me senseless—into oblivion. He wields full control of himself and my body as though he were born for power. Scooping me up when the dresser is no longer managing to support my slow collapse, he sits on his bed and cradles me in his lap without breaking away from my mouth for more than a moment.

It's dizzyingly good. He's devastatingly good.

"Every day." He heaves the coarse words, every inch of him shaking and boring into my curves. Crushing me close, then closer. Bruising. "I want this every day."

My heart stammers.

He combs back my hair, kisses my forehead, lingers with his hot, damp breaths hitting my skin. "You drive me mad. I've never felt chaos like you before in my life, and I spent my youth cleaning shrapnel out of myself." More kisses speckle my cheeks, my shoulder. He presses his forehead to me and battles for air. "I want to crush you until you submit, until your storm belongs to me. I can't explain it to myself. You are a frustration. And so…so dear." Falling apart, he mutters, "People like me should not be allowed to do whatever they want."

"People like…" Unsteady, I lift my trembling fingers and frame his cheeks, forcing him to look at me. "Hush," I breathe. I am electric. It's hard to focus. This is too far. This is way too far. Desperate people are so predictable…but he doesn't deserve to wind up shattered. "Who has the right to stop you right now?"

"You."

"Have I?" I should. I need to. I can't.

His fingertips graze along my jaw, tilt my chin. His eyes take in whatever marks he's left on me. In the quiet perusal, there is pain, horror, and possession. "No."

This is too dangerous. But if I fool myself, I can pretend it's necessary. "You are smart and capable and kind. You can trust yourself. You can trust your heart. You are not the sort of person who twists reality to fit your desires." I cup his face. "You listen, and you care. You care at such a…such a staggering depth. It is impossible for you to become the monsters you've feared."

He presses my palm into his cheek, dazed, exhausted.

Rage sparks deep in my gut, and I touch my forehead to his. "If anyone tries to hurt you, I will make them regret it in every blistering cell of their body before they take their final, agonizing breath."

Weakly, Rowan's lips curve, the faintest idea of a smile, the LaCroix of a smile.

It's so beautiful I lose all the strength in my limbs.

Tenderly, he says, "How scary."

"My papa taught me how to protect the things I care about."

His eyes close. "I look forward to meeting him."

My chest tightens, and tears bead in my eyes. A shaky smile lifts my lips. "Yeah." My throat closes. "He'll love you."

When Rowan kisses me again, I release my inhibitions until there is only me, him, and no space for grief between.