Catch up here:Part 1 Part 2 Part 3 Part 4 Part 5 Part 6 Part 7 Part 8
*Sorry for not posting last week. I had totally planned to but it's been a busy month!*
Part 9
Cameron was hunched over the desk in the clinic when Loa knocked and let himself in. The clock on the wall read 9:30, but Cameron felt as if she hadn’t slept in years. Loa didn’t wait for her to acknowledge him, just strode across the floor and dropped a hand on her shoulder, gentle but insistent.
“Need you to get ready for a few girls to come in,” he said, voice pitched low so it wouldn’t carry past the open door. He looked over his shoulder, as if expecting the hallway to sprout ears or teeth. “Had some trouble at the club last night.”
The words hung in the air, thick with implications. Even before she could answer, Cameron’s body was already in motion, rising from the chair, adrenaline erasing the leaden drag of fatigue from her limbs. She reached for the supply cabinet, mentally running through the checklist of gauze, antiseptics, lidocaine, anything she might need, anything she might be missing. “What kind of trouble?” she asked, but the question sounded rote, an echo from a previous life where she hadn’t yet learned that trouble was the default state of this house.
Loa’s jaw worked, the muscles jumping beneath the skin. “The Italians are back,” he muttered. “Think one of their guys broke in, took some money, roughed up a few of the girls.”
She absorbed this. The Italians. Tama had said they’d been handled, but in Cameron’s experience, nothing stayed handled for long. She pressed her lips together, fighting the urge to ask for more details, the who and how and why of it, as if the finer points of violence could be parsed and catalogued like symptoms in a chart.
“How could something like that happen?” she said, setting out a tray and pulling on a pair of gloves, her hands moving with the muscle memory of old emergencies. It was a feeble question, but she needed to hear it said aloud, needed someone to confirm that the universe was still operating according to at least a few recognizable rules.
Loa shrugged, the motion oddly helpless for a man built like a refrigerator with a grudge. “Security says the front door was covered, but you know how it is.” He glanced at her, eyes briefly softening, and Cameron had the sense he wanted to say more but didn’t trust the words to come out right. Instead, he busied himself with clearing a spot on the examination table.
She was about to press him,who was on shift, how badly the women were hurt, when Loa spoke again, this time quieter, as if the whole house might be listening.
“Truth is, everyone was distracted.” He kept his gaze fixed on a point just beyond her shoulder. “Maybe the guard on the door stepped away for a piss, maybe he just didn’t care. Or maybe—” He stopped himself, teeth worrying at his lower lip.
“Or maybe someone let them in,” Cameron finished for him, voice flat but not unkind. This was a house that thrived on loyalty, but loyalty was a currency like any other: easy to counterfeit, easy to spend.
Loa nodded, almost imperceptibly. “Maybe. Tama’s talking to the guys now. But before the dust settles, you’ll have two or three girls in here, bleeding and scared, and the only thing keeping them from running to the cops is you.”
She swallowed. “Okay. I’ll be ready.” She meant it, though her hands had already started to tremble.
True to Loa’s prediction, three women had been brought in, collateral damage from the chaos of the night. They were huddled on the edge of the trauma beds, wrapped in oversized infirmary blankets, their eyes wide and hollow.
Loa didn't leave. He lingered by the heavy glass doors, his large frame leaning casually against the frame. He wasn't helping; he was a sentry. He was chewing gum, his jaw moving in a slow, rhythmic grind that set Cameron’s teeth on edge. Every time she moved, his dark eyes followed her.
"This is going to sting a little, Maya," Cameron murmured, soaking a gauze pad in saline. She positioned herself deliberately, using her shoulder to block Loa’s line of sight to the girl’s face.
"It’s okay," Maya whispered, her voice trembling.
"The is a mess," Cameron said, her voice barely a breath as she leaned in to inspect the wound. "Tama is devastated. Everyone is looking for someone to blame."
Maya’s breath hitched. Her eyes darted toward Loa, then back to Cameron. "We didn't say anything. We swear."
"I know," Cameron whispered, her fingers light and steady as she began to stitch. "But someone did. What happened last night?" From the corner of her eye, Cameron saw Loa straighten up. The rhythmic clicking of his gum stopped.
"Everything alright over there?" Loa’s voice rumbled through the room, sounding deceptively bored.
Cameron didn't look up. "Just a deep laceration, Loa. She’s losing focus from the shock. I need her to stay with me." She pressed a little harder on the gauze, a silent signal for Maya to keep her voice down. "Maya, look at me. Focus on your breathing."
She leaned in close, close enough that her hair brushed Maya’s cheek. Maya was shivering, but not from cold; her jaw clenched and unclenched, each muscle in her neck drawn tight as wire. She kept glancing at the doors, at Loa’s looming shadow, at the blank ceiling tiles, anywhere but directly at Cameron, as if eye contact might burn her through. Cameron steadied her with a gentle hand on the shoulder, then another at the nape of her neck, thumb stroking circles over Maya’s wildly erratic pulse. The girl’s skin was clammy but Cameron felt the heat of panic radiating through it.
“Stay with me, Maya,” she murmured, voice low and soothing. “You’re safe, just focus on my face.” She leaned even closer, until their foreheads almost touched, and whispered, “I need you to tell me what happened. Who was there at the door, before it all went bad?”
Maya blinked rapidly, tears welling at the corners of her eyes, but she didn’t look away. For a long moment she said nothing, biting her lower lip hard enough to break the skin, but then she exhaled a trembling breath and the words slipped out, barely audible, almost lost beneath the fluorescent buzz.
“It was the guard…” She hesitated, flicking a glance at Loa, then at the darkened two-way mirror on the wall behind him. “The one with the scar on his neck..”
Cameron stiffened. The scar on the neck, she’d noticed it, a jagged white seam running just beneath the ear and disappearing into the collar. Latu. She’d seen him often, usually shadowing Loa, rarely smiling, but always watching. Latu was a company man, through and through. Tama’s man, on paper, but in a place like this, allegiances were only as thick as a paycheck and as sturdy as a locked door. Cameron’s mind raced, cataloguing every prior interaction with Latu, every sidelong look or loaded silence, every time she’d seen him linger just a little too long outside a door he was supposed to be guarding.
She started to ask another question, but Maya’s hand shot out, gripping Cameron’s wrist with a desperate strength. She shook her head minutely, don’t, please, not now, not in front of—
“Cameron,” said Loa.
The word was a sharp interruption, a summons and a threat in a single syllable. She felt the sound hit her spine before she even registered that Loa had moved. He was right at the foot of the exam bed, a solid, immovable presence, his arms crossed over his massive chest, his eyes narrowed and intent. The forced nonchalance was gone, replaced by something predatory and assessing. He was making no attempt to hide the fact that he’d been listening the whole time.
“Shouldn’t take so long for a simple stitch,” he said, the edges of his voice honed to a razor.
Cameron didn’t look up. She tamped down Maya’s pulse with her thumb, then started to close the wound with a series of quick, practiced knots, the suture thread biting through flesh and snapping taut. Her own hands were steady, but her heart was a jackhammer. She wanted to ask Maya more; how did the guard let them in, was he alone, what did he say, but she could feel Loa’s gaze carving into her like a scalpel.
“It’s okay, Maya,” she said, finishing the stitch and pressing a gauze pad to the wound. “We’re almost done here. Just relax.”
Loa took a step closer, the vinyl floor squeaking beneath his boot. He leaned in, bracing his knuckles on the edge of the bed, forcing Cameron to acknowledge him. She finally looked up, meeting his stare, refusing to blink first.
“Careful what you say in front of the girls,” Loa murmured, the threat buried just beneath the surface, almost polite. “You don’t want to get them worked up over nothing. Tama’s got this under control. Your job is to patch them up so they can get back to work.”
Cameron bristled, but kept her face blank. “Maybe if security had done their jobs, I wouldn’t have to patch anyone up.”
Loa’s lips curled into a smile, humorless, cold. “And maybe if you kept your nose where it belonged, we wouldn’t have to worry about rumors getting out of hand.”
The message was clear. She was a tool, nothing more, and tools didn’t ask questions. But she didn’t move, not even as Loa shifted his weight, looming over her like a thundercloud.
Maya whimpered. Cameron gently squeezed her shoulder, a silent promise. Then she looked Loa dead in the eye.
“Ready for the next one,” she said, voice flat.
The next girl, Vivi, shuffled in, her long hair a tangled mess that hung limply about her shoulders. Even through the blanket draped around her, Cameron could see the thinness of her arms, the way her eyes darted around the clinic as if trying to memorize every exit, every possible escape route. The dull ache of apprehension settled in Cameron’s stomach. These women were terrified, and it wasn’t just the physical wounds that needed tending.
“Take a seat.” Cameron’s voice cut through the haze of uncertainty. She motioned to the exam table, trying to inject some warmth into the atmosphere. “We’ll get you taken care of.”
Vivi glanced at Loa, still standing with his arms crossed, a stone wall anchoring the doorframe. He didn’t offer any reassurance or comfort; he was still watching, assessing everything, and Cameron felt the sudden pressure of being under surveillance again.
Vivi’s lips quivered. “I…I just need to clean up the cut on my lip, that’s all. I can do it myself.”
“Can’t do it yourself if you don’t know what you’re doing.” Cameron injected confidence where her own was flagging. “Trust me. I see a lot of these kinds of cuts, and I can take care of it quickly.
Cameron leaned in, careful to create a physical barrier between Vivi and the rest of the room, giving the illusion of privacy even with Loa looming close. The harsh fluorescent light picked out every tremor in Vivi’s hands as she clutched the blanket tight to her chest, a makeshift armor against scrutiny. Her knuckles were white, her shoulders curved in as if she hoped to collapse into herself, to become too small for anyone to notice. Cameron soaked a fresh gauze pad with saline and dabbed at the split above Vivi’s upper lip with the gentlest touch she could manage. Blood welled up in tiny red beads, but the girl didn’t flinch or cry out; she only blinked rapidly, lashes wet with gathering tears.
Loa’s presence was a constant pulse in the background, his bulk more felt than seen, the air in the room seeming to vibrate with the anticipation of violence. Cameron kept her head down, pretending to focus on the wound but really watching Vivi’s eyes, the way they darted past her shoulder, searching for an escape route, for a sympathetic face, for any sign of safety. She moved her body to shield the girl. In the narrow tunnel of space between them, she whispered: “Just shake your head. Was Latu at the door when this happened?”
A heartbeat of silence. Vivi’s pupils dilated with fear, her breath a shallow flutter against the back of Cameron’s hand. She didn’t speak, but gave the smallest nod, an almost imperceptible up-and-down that could have been mistaken for a nervous tic. Her eyes flicked again toward Loa, then away, as if afraid he might see through the wall of Cameron’s shoulder and lips and know exactly what was being admitted.
She squeezed Vivi’s arm, just once, a pressure meant to reassure but also to communicate: I heard you. I believe you. Then, with mechanical efficiency bred from years of tending wounds in places much like this one, she pressed an adhesive strip over the cut and smoothed it down, her fingers steady even as her mind reeled through the implications. Latu, the inside man, the one nobody really questioned. If he’d been at the door, and the attack still got through, things were much, much worse than anyone was admitting in front of the girls.
She tidied up, stripping off her gloves, and dropped the bloody gauze into the biohazard bin. “You’re good,” she said, pitching her voice to the room, for Loa’s benefit as much as Vivi’s. “Just keep pressure on it. Next.”
Vivi slid off the table, her eyes still fixed to the floor. She didn’t say thank you, didn’t look at Cameron again, just slunk to the far wall and curled up on a plastic chair. Cameron nodded once to Loa, who answered with the barest tilt of his chin, then gestured for the last of the girls to come forward.
Once all the girls were taken care of, Loa disappeared with them in tow, into the fluorescent-lit corridor without a word, the heavy door shutting behind him with the blunt finality of a closing vault. The air seemed to expand in his absence, pressure dropping by invisible degrees, and for the first time in hours Cameron realized how long she’d been holding her breath.
Cameron stood paralyzed for a moment, the phantom weight of Loa’s gaze still pressing against the back of her neck. Her mind was a chaotic loop of Maya’s terrified whisper and the image of a guard with a scarred neck. Latu. The name felt like a jagged piece of glass she was forced to swallow. If she kept it inside, it would cut her; if she let it out, it might start a war that would leave no survivors.
She stripped off her gloves, the snap of latex echoing like a gunshot in the sterile room. She didn't have time to wait. She needed to find Tama.
The walk from the clinic to the East Wing felt longer than usual. The estate had changed. The sprawling mansion didn't feel like a fortress anymore, it felt like a mausoleum. The usual hum of activity had been replaced by a heavy, oppressive stillness, punctuated only by the occasional silhouette of a guard standing sentry in the shadows.
She found Tama exactly where she’d expected; corner office at the end of the gallery, backlit by a floor-to-ceiling window that turned his silhouette into something mythic. The overheads were dimmed, pooling all the light around him like a theatrical spotlight, making his white shirt gleam and his shadowed face unreadable from the corridor. He was hunched over the conference table with four other men.Their heads were together, grave and intent, the air thick with the hush of things that could not afford to be spoken aloud.
Even from the hallway, Cameron could hear the undercurrent of tension in the clipped exchanges, the way each man’s hand hovered near his phone or the butt of his weapon, as if expecting bad news to teleport itself into the room at any second. Tama presided with the kinetic watchfulness of a field general, not a single movement wasted; his eyes scanned the room in quick, nervous arcs, always returning to the digital map projected onto the wall. Security routes, exit points, and a scatter of red X’s where things had gone wrong.
She hesitated at the door, unsure if she should interrupt. But Tama caught sight of her almost instantly. His gaze landed on her like a thrown knife, sharp and appraising, registering her presence and then, to her surprise, softening by a degree. He muttered a quick word in Tongan, and the four men froze, then turned to examine Cameron as if she were an unexpected data point; perhaps a solution, perhaps another problem.
Tama said something low to the group, and one by one they peeled away from the table, gathering their tablets and files with tight, controlled movements. His younger brother Talla nodded at Cameron as he passed, his expression unreadable. The rest kept their chins tilted down, eyes sliding away from hers, as if unwilling to be caught in the crossfire of whatever was about to go down.
When the room had cleared, Tama straightened, then beckoned her inside with a flick of his hand. For a second, he looked bone-tired, the lines around his mouth etched deeper than she remembered.
She made herself step forward, forcing calm into her limbs, though she felt like she’d just stepped into a meat locker. Tama’s eyes were a hardness she’d never seen directed at her, as if he were already calculating what she might say.
“I…sorry to interrupt,” she managed, voice barely above a whisper. She noticed the tremor in her own hands and locked them behind her back.
Tama didn’t offer her a seat. Instead, he paced to the far end of the room, then back, his gaze never leaving her face. “You wouldn’t unless it was important,”
She nodded, unable to meet his eyes for long. The words jammed up behind her teeth: tell him Latu was at the door, tell him the girls are scared and the guards are worse, tell him she’d just lied to Loa’s face and that she’d do it again, and again, if it kept at least one of the girls safe. But what came out was the sanitized version, the script she’d been handed every time she changed clinics and masters and cities. “The girls are all treated,” she said, and was sickened by the way she’d already internalized the language; ‘the girls,’ not their names, not their faces. “Nothing serious. Just some minor cuts.”
But Tama was a man who didn’t waste words, or actions, or even air. Now, he only said, “Cameron,” and it was an invitation and a threat and a plea, all coiled together in a single, sharp syllable. His hands drummed a tattoo on the lacquered wood as he came to a stop across from her. He leaned in, looming, but not to intimidate, she realized, with a start, that it was the opposite. He was shielding her from whatever might be listening on the other side of the door. She felt, for the first time that they might actually be on the same team now.
“You can tell me,” Tama said softly, and that was when she nearly broke. He was still the same man, she thought. He could still read the room, the people inside it, the way a hunter reads wind and sign.
She swallowed. “They’re scared.” She hesitated. She wanted to say Latu’s name, but the memory of Vivi’s terror and Maya’s shaking hands held her tongue. “They didn’t see. But…” She forced herself to look Tama in the eye. “If you want my opinion, someone let that man in.”
The admission seemed to settle over Tama like new gravity. He nodded, slow and deliberate, as if he’d already suspected but needed to hear it shaped into words.
He didn’t thank her. He didn’t have to. She watched as he recalibrated, his mind already leaping ahead to consequences, responses, contingencies. She had given him a piece of the puzzle, and now it was his job to decide which way the blade would turn.
Then, instead of dismissing her, he gestured for her to sit at the table, and when she did, he sat beside her, not across, but beside, their shoulders nearly touching. He reached for a notepad, scribbled something she couldn’t read, and tore off the page. When he slid it across to her, his hand lingered, covering hers for a fraction of a second.
She slid the note open: WHO
She wrote the name with a deliberate, blocky script: Latu.
For a couple seconds, nothing happened. Tama watched the word darken on the paper, the pressure of her pen so great it nearly punctured the page. His lips didn’t move, not even a twitch. He just stared, silent, absorbing the name the way you might absorb a death sentence. He took the note, folded it so decisively the paper made a small, dry snapping sound, then tucked it in his pocket.
“Alright,” he said. “Go change your clothes. I want you with me.”
She wanted to ask what was about to happen, whether the house would erupt, whether she’d just signed Latu’s death warrant, but she caught herself. No one survived here by playing at more courage than they possessed.
He spoke so quietly she almost missed it; “I had your things moved to my room.” For a moment, the sentence seemed to float in the stagnant air between them, unanchored to anything she’d expected. There was no preamble, no explanation, just the fact of it, both declarative and possessive. Cameron blinked, not quite computing, her brain scrambling for an explanation.
Tama watched her with that same implacable calm, as if he could see the storm gathering behind her eyes and was inviting it. There was no hint of apology, no awkward smile to undercut the intimacy of the arrangement. For a second, she wondered if this was how the house protected its assets; by bringing them closer to the core, by eliminating even the illusion of distance.
She wondered if this meant she was now under his protection. The old Cameron, a different Cameron, might have recoiled or blushed or made some biting joke. But this version of her just nodded, understanding that the gesture was both a boon and a warning, a signal that her fate was now entwined with Tama’s in a way that left little room for dissent.
He was still watching her, expectant, and it took her a beat to realize what he wanted; compliance, no questions, no scenes. She could do that. She could always do that.
She stood and smoothed her shirt with hands that didn’t quite feel like part of her body. “I’ll change now,” she said, and her voice was steady, which surprised her.
As she turned to go, Tama’s hand shot out and caught her wrist, the grip so sudden and sure she nearly gasped. His palm was warm, slightly callused, unmistakably real after a day spent navigating the chaotic morning. He didn’t let go, didn’t even loosen his hold. Instead, with a force that was both gentle and absolute, he tugged her back toward him, so that her hip collided softly with the edge of the table and she lost her balance for a second, eyes darting up to meet his.
“I’m not finished,” he said, voice low but thick with intent, and before she could decide whether to resist or lean in, he was already standing, already moving into her space with that predatory grace.
He bent his head, and kissed her. Not the rough, punishing collision she expected, but something breathtakingly at odds with the rest of the day; a kiss so unexpectedly soft it undid her, unraveled the tight coil of tension in her chest, replaced it with a sinking, helpless warmth that radiated out until her knees threatened to buckle.
----
The Siren Room in broad daylight was an entirely different animal. At night, it devoured sound and spun sugar-light into the air until everything inside felt feverish and unreal, but now every corner was exposed, the haze of illusion burned away by the sun slanting through the skylights. The velvet benches looked almost gauche in the unforgiving morning, their wine-dark nap running in uneven lines from the previous evening’s bodies. Mirrors behind the bar, always so cunningly lit after dark, now showed every smear and fingerprint, turning the room’s glamour into something a little cheap, a little tragic.
She stood a few steps behind Tama as they entered.
Tama moved through the room with an assertiveness that made the air thick around him. He had transitioned seamlessly from the intimacy of their shared space to this public arena, an unsettling juxtaposition that caught Cameron off guard.
Tama didn’t hesitate, he simply projected his will into the room. “I want everyone in here, now,” he barked. The words echoed off the bare concrete of the floor, bounced off the glass and mirrors and metal, and within seconds, the effect was visible. The staff and guards who usually pretended to be invisible, tucked behind doors and curtains, materialized at the threshold in uneven clusters: bartenders, two at first, then the cleaning crew, then the girls. The guards arrived last, eyes flat, arms folded across their chests in calculated boredom, but their feet couldn’t quite conceal the tension in their bodies. Cameron tracked the faces as they assembled, some familiar, some not, all of them registering the rare spectacle of Tama making a demand in public.
All of them, she realized, were afraid of what had brought him here, of what might be coming, of what might be demanded in turn. Tama let the silence build as the last straggler entered, then turned to face them all, the room’s gravity suddenly, overwhelmingly organized around the force of his presence.
He motioned for Latu to step forward,
Tama faced the assembled group, his presence an indomitable force demanding attention, and Cameron felt a tension in the air, a palpable weight that seemed to thrum against her skin. She stood just behind his right shoulder, heart drumming in her chest as the shifting glances of the staff flitted between their glaring leader and Latu. Each pair of eyes bore witness to the unspoken threat that crackled in the atmosphere, a threat that bore the weight of violence and fear.
Latu stepped forward with a practiced nonchalance, but it didn’t escape Cameron’s notice how his body stiffened, the subtle way his hands clenched. The scar on his neck, white and jagged, drew her gaze in spite of herself. She felt the urge to step closer to Tama, to anchor herself in the reassurance of his presence, but she forced herself to remain still, to observe.
The staff fidgeted around them, exchanging furtive glances, the unmistakable tension hanging above them like a storm cloud leaving them all charged with nervous energy.
Tama’s voice, when it came, was almost gentle; not a shout, but something far worse, far more ultimate. “Let this be a lesson to anyone who fucks with me.” He let the words settle, soft and lethal as a blade pressed to skin, before he moved. He did not bluster, did not telegraph his next step. One moment Latu stood there, chin up, hands unclenched as if to signal fealty, and the next his face caught the angle of light from the window as he registered what was about to happen. Cameron saw it; the quiver at the edge of his mouth, the liquid fear in his eyes as he realized that Tama’s hands were not empty.
Tama raised the pistol so fast it seemed to materialize from the air itself. For the briefest possible interval, the black barrel hovered between Latu’s eyebrows, enough time for every person in the room to understand, viscerally and forever, the new rules of the house. The gunshot cracked through the morning, louder than the music that usually pumped through the hidden speakers, louder than any sound that had ever echoed in the Siren Room. Latu was there, then gone, his body folding in on itself before slumping to the polished floor. There was no scream, no plea, no cinematic slow-motion; only the pop of the gun, the soft thud of a body losing mastery of its limbs, and the acrid, immediate smell of gunfire and spilled blood.
The velvet seats, the mirrors, the exposed daylight, they were all irrelevant now. Only Tama and Latu’s corpse and the splatter on the floor existed. For a moment, no one moved. Even Cameron’s own heartbeat seemed to pause, waiting for permission to resume. Then, as if on cue, the world snapped back into motion; the girls shrank into themselves, the bartenders stared at the floor, and the rest of the staff seemed to vanish into the walls, willing themselves out of existence.
Cameron stood rooted, her mouth dry, her vision tunneled to the ragged, red arc blooming across the floor. She felt the weight of the act, the inexorability of it. She wondered, wildly, if it would land on her, too—if that unblinking violence could pivot on any of them, for any reason, at any time.
Tama, meanwhile, holstered his gun as if it were a set of keys or a wallet, not a thing that had just reconfigured every atom in the room. “Clean it up,” he growled to no one in particular, and the order rippled out, snapped up by the nearest pair of hands. He looked at Cameron, eyes flat and unreadable, and for a moment she could not tell if he was asking for her approval or her forgiveness.
He turned to the rest. “There will be no more mistakes,” he stated, and the words hung in the air like a benediction and a curse, the only sound left in the stunned, trembling silence.
No one spoke. No one moved. The only thing that remained was the echo of Tama’s words, looping through the stunned room, a spell cast over every living soul present. Mistakes would no longer be tolerated. Weak links would be vaporized, their absence marked only by the stains left behind and the lessons burned into memory.
What Tama had done was not just a killing but a transformation. He had invoked a new set of laws, the kind that rewrote the architecture of loyalty and fear. He had become the axis around which the rest of them would now orbit, and every eye in the Siren Room, Cameron’s included, registered the shift with a mixture of awe and horror. In the stretched silence, something primal fused them all together, a single organism shuddering in the aftermath of its own trauma.
Cameron felt herself vibrating with the rest of them, a tuning fork struck by the spectacle. She glanced around and saw that no one, absolutely no one, met her eyes. She understood, then, that being bound to Tama was protection of a sort, but also the isolation of a quarantine. She was on the inside now, and the perimeter had been drawn in blood.
Tama simply turned on his heel, grabbed Cameron’s wrist, his grip tight and pulled her toward the private garage.
He bypassed the armored SUVs and the motorcade. Instead, he shoved her into the passenger seat of a matte-black G-Wagon that had been sitting under a tarp in the darkest corner of the garage.
The engine roared to life with a violent snarl, and then… nothing.
For two solid hours, the silence inside the car was absolute, heavy, and suffocating.
Cameron sat perfectly still in the leather seat, the adrenaline slowly leaching out of her veins, The dashboard lights cast a harsh, red glow over Tama’s profile. He drove like a machine, his hands gripping the steering wheel so hard the leather groaned under the pressure. His armor was completely gone, leaving behind a man who had just realized that the only way to save his empire was to burn down his own bloodline.
He didn't turn on the radio. He didn't make a single phone call. The silence wasn't peaceful, it was a funeral dirge for a brother he now had to kill.
The city skyline vanished in the rearview mirror, replaced by winding, unlit roads that snaked deep into nowhere. When Tama finally killed the engine, the sudden quiet was deafening.
He sat in the dark for a long beat, his forehead resting against the top of the steering wheel. Finally, he unbuckled his seatbelt and looked at her.
"No one knows this place exists," Tama rasped, his voice sounding like broken glass.
Cameron stepped out her shoes crunching loudly against gravel. The air up here was brutally cold, thin, and smelled intensely of damp pine and deep, freezing water. She looked up, and the breath caught in her throat.
It wasn’t a safe house. It was an anomaly. Built directly into the edge of a sheer, rocky precipice overlooking a sprawling lake, the structure was a jagged, geometric masterpiece of dark steel and glass. In the pale moonlight, it looked less like a home and more like a solitary observation deck at the edge of the world.
Tama brushed past her, his heavy frame moving with a slow, mechanical stiffness. He pressed his palm against a sleek biometric scanner flush with the stone wall. An electronic deadbolt disengaged with a heavy thud, and the thick steel door swung open.
As they stepped inside, motion sensors triggered. Soft, recessed lighting bled into the interior, and Cameron immediately felt a profound, terrifying sense of exposure.
The entire back wall of the house, spanning a massive, sunken living area and a large kitchen, was made completely of floor-to-ceiling glass. It offered a breathtaking, panoramic view of the drop-off and the lake below. But right now, with the pitch-black night pressing against it, the glass acted like a giant mirror. It reflected the cold slate floors, the stark, modern furniture, and the two people standing in the foyer.
It was a gorgeous, multi-million-dollar display case. And they were the specimens inside.
Tama closed the steel door behind them and threw the manual deadbolt. The metallic scrape echoed through the cavernous space like a vault sealing shut.
He didn't move into the living room. He stopped right there in the entryway, the harsh light catching the dark, drying arterial spray on his white dress shirt and his hands. The Warlord who had navigated the chaos of the estate with terrifying, lethal precision was completely gone. The man standing in the reflection of the glass looked hollowed out, a king who had finally crushed the crown in his own bare hands.
He shrugged off his shoulder holster, letting the heavy weapon drop to the pristine floor with a dull, heavy clatter.
He didn't look at Cameron. He walked slowly toward the massive glass wall, his heavy boots echoing in the empty house. He stopped just inches from the pane, staring out into the absolute black void of the lake, his broad shoulders slumped.
"There are no cameras here," Tama said. His voice was a low, gravelly rasp that seemed to get swallowed by the sheer size of the room. "No guards. No perimeter alarms. My brother doesn't know the coordinates. Neither do my men."
Cameron stood in the center of the room, shivering despite the climate-controlled air. She looked around the beautiful, terrifying cage, and then back at Tama. He hadn't brought her to a fortress to protect her. He had brought her to the one place on earth where he was completely, utterly unprotected.
She walked toward him with unsteady steps, the sound of her heels echoing in the vast, echoic chamber, each footfall a measured syllable in the new, fragile language that had formed between them. His silhouette, framed by the glass wall and the ink-black expanse beyond, didn’t flinch or turn as she approached, but she could see the tremor at the hinge of his jaw, the light quiver of a man who had finally allowed himself to be alone with the sum total of his actions.
There was a force field around him, some boundary she knew not to cross, but she also knew that, in this moment, she was the only person on the earth who could even approach it.
Surprisingly he slipped an arm around her waist and hauled her in, flattening her spine against his chest with the unapologetic strength of a drowning man anchoring himself to the last solid thing in the world. The motion was abrupt but not rough, a single, desperate vector breaking the standoff of their parallel silences. Cameron felt the clamp of his palm through the silk of her blouse, the heat of his body overwhelming any last memory of the cold outside.
His head bowed, forehead landing heavily against the crown of her head, his wide hand splayed over her ribcage as though to hold her together or, perhaps, to keep himself from splitting apart. For a moment she thought he might shake her, or release her, or say something scalding to cauterize the raw edge of whatever he was feeling. Instead, he just held her there, breathing hard, his chest rising and falling against her shoulder blades in a rhythm that the controlled respiration of a beast holding itself back from something much worse.
Cameron’s arms hung stupidly at her sides, not knowing whether to console him or to brace herself for violence, but slowly, almost imperceptibly, she allowed herself to lean back into the cage of his arm. The pressure was not gentleness, nor possession, but a surge of pure, unmediated need. She could feel the tremor in his hold; rage, yes, but also the gravitational collapse of a lifetime’s worth of shielded grief.
She kept her eyes open, staring at their doubled reflections in the glass: a man and a woman, neither quite knowing if they were captor or captive, both outlined in the sterile light of exile. The silence between them was thick, electrical. She could sense the words neither of them would say. She answered by letting her own hand drift upward, finding his wrist and holding it, steady, not to free herself but to anchor him in return.
For a long time, they stood like that, motionless as a pair of statues at the edge of extinction, while the black water outside reflected nothing, and the rest of the world spun away beyond the reach of their exile.
He didn’t speak for a long time, and when he finally did, his voice was unrecognizable, a thin, threadbare echo of the command that had once filled the Siren Room. “I come here to think,” Tama said.
He might as well have admitted to something obscene. The words reverberated through the high, empty ceilings, through the glass and concrete and the cold, elementally pure air. Cameron could feel the ache in them, the confession tethered to each syllable. It was a miserable kind of freedom, being alone with the truth, with the perimeter carved so far out that nothing and no one could breach it. Here, in this place built for secrecy and survival, the act of thinking itself was the most dangerous exposure of all.
She waited, wary, wondering if he would offer more, if he would finally unspool the catalogue of horrors that had emptied him out. She wondered if she wanted him to.
But when Tama finally moved, it was only to flex his hand over her ribs, just once, as if testing the solidity of what he’d taken hold of. Then he let her go. She swayed a little on her feet, the loss of contact abrupt, and turned to watch as he disengaged, dragging a hand down his face before stalking toward a hidden staircase carved into the side of the foyer.
Cameron hesitated. She could have retreated to the opposite corner, taken up residence in the farthest room and waited out the storm of his grief and guilt. But something in her; reckless, or maybe just pragmatic, compelled her to follow him.
The staircase was cantilevered from the wall, each floating tread a slab of darkened, unfinished steel with no visible support. Cameron’s instinct was to keep her hand on the glass balustrade, but Tama reached back and took her by the hand, guiding her up as if she might otherwise fall.
Then, with a turn of his wrist on an invisible reader, he opened a door and ushered her into the room. The air changed immediately, denser, tinged with cedar and something sharp. Inside, a king-sized bed dominated the space, sheets pulled tight. The windows were blacked out, not with curtains, but with layered, soundproof panels. There were no pictures, no books, no evidence of life lived here at all, just a tactical retreat from the world, engineered for maximum self-containment.
He waited until she was over the threshold, then shut the door, the magnetic lock hissing shut behind him.
Tama stood with his back pressed to the closed door, jaw clenched as he surveyed the carnage on his shirt, arterial spray and something darker, some filmy residue of the night’s violence, spattered in wild constellations across the stretched white cotton. For a moment, he just stared at it, as if the blood hadn’t come from a stranger but from himself, a visible proof of something inside him split and leaking out. Then he looked at Cameron with an expression utterly shorn of his usual authority, a man whose options had been reduced to only the most elemental needs: to purge, to numb, or to be witnessed.
He gathered a fistful of fabric at his chest, the stained shirt gaping open, and said, “I need to shower.” He let the words hang for a second, the offer almost an afterthought, then added, “Join me?” as if the proposition required no explanation. In the cold logic of post-trauma, maybe it didn’t.
Cameron tried to imagine herself refusing but she was startled by how much she wanted it. Not just for the closeness, but for the brief, chemical erasure of the day, the possibility of emerging, even for a few minutes, as something clean.
She nodded, almost imperceptibly, and Tama exhaled through his nose, a sound so low it was almost a growl. He stepped past her, moving with a new, single-minded urgency, and thumbed open a hidden panel in the wall. The en-suite bathroom was cavernous, every surface black basalt or seamless glass, and the centerpiece was an industrial rain shower, a column of steel suspended from the ceiling over a sunken floor.
He reached in and twisted the fixtures; water thundered down, dense and hot, filling the room with a heavy vapor. Then, with a practiced, almost surgical efficiency, he stripped off the ruined shirt, then his pants. Each layer exposed more of the body that had carried her to safety.
Cameron stood in the threshold, rooted, watching him peel away the last barrier and step into the column of water. Steam rose instantly, curling off his skin, and the blood ran in thin ropes down his arms and spine before vanishing into the dark tile. He didn’t look back at her, and for a heartbeat she thought he might have forgotten the invitation entirely, lost in the process of scrubbing himself raw.
She stood, arms wrapped around her own torso, paralyzed half-in, half-out of the threshold. The rainwater roared incessantly; its echo in the marble and stone was so complete it took her a second to realize he had spoken. Tama’s voice, usually so tightly coiled, now unfurled in uneven bands and bounced off every slick surface, a sonic boom that made her start.
“Come in, sweetheart,” he said, not looking over his shoulder. The word, that word—sweetheart, pronounced as if it were the most natural thing in the world, as if her name had always been something soft in his mouth, cracked Cameron open at the midline.
She couldn’t remember the last time someone called her that. It was her mother’s word, maybe, or some half-recalled echo from a better universe, a dimension where she could be fragile and adored by someone who didn’t want to extract a price for it. In Tama’s mouth it became an act of violence, as destabilizing and dangerous as anything he’d ever done with a weapon.
She hovered on the edge, skin prickling with confusion and a sudden, unaccountable longing. She watched the hot water run off his back, off his shoulders, the blood and grit sluicing away in red and black rivulets around his feet. He braced his palms against the basalt, head lowered, the muscles of his neck taut as steel cables under the spray. There was nothing performative in the gesture. He looked like a man being punished, a monster forced at last to cleanse himself in his victim’s gaze.
Cameron was not naïve. She knew the physics of trauma, the way shock and cortisol could web up into something that looked, from the outside, like connection. She knew he could be dialing the word up as a means of control, as a mechanism to lure her in closer, but the intimacy of it still hit her square in the sternum, like a bullet that flowered instead of tore.
She stepped into the too-warm haze, moving on impulse, her breath fogging up in the new, wet heat. Every surface in the shower was black glass, reflective and infinite; she could see herself multiplied a thousand times over, always smaller than his silhouette, always on the periphery.
He still hadn’t turned. For a moment she thought he was giving her one last chance to decide, to run, to slam the door and lock herself away. But then he just stood there, letting the water and the silence do their work. The only invitation was the word, which seemed to grow louder in her head the longer she waited.
She stepped forward, leaving behind a pile of fabric that seemed suddenly too small to belong to anyone real, and placed one foot, then the next, onto the wet floor. The heat was immediate, almost painful against her skin, a scald that forced her out of her own head and into the present tense of her body. She moved toward him, hands slightly out as if she might need to steady herself, or maybe to touch him, just to see if he was real.
He still hadn’t turned. The sight of his hunched back, the rivers of water carving clean lines down his skin, was so intimate it made her throat close. She was close enough now to feel the shudder of each breath rattling his ribs, close enough to see the goosebumps on his arms. That he hadn’t looked at her, hadn’t demanded her gaze, made the moment feel stranger than if he’d grabbed her by the hair.
She reached up, tentative, and pressed her palm to the place just below his shoulder blade. His skin was hotter than the water, electric with tension, and for a second he went rigid under her hand as if the contact was a threat. But then he exhaled, and the coil of his body slackened, and he let her touch anchor him instead of push him away.
She circled his waist with her arms, the contact so unfamiliar it almost startled her, and pressed the side of her face between his shoulder blades. At first, he flinched, every muscle in his body tensing as if she’d pressed a blade instead of a palm to him. But she didn’t withdraw, didn’t so much as flinch in return. Instead she just held him, her breath damp and hot against his skin, matching the rhythm of the water pounding down around them.
Cameron’s fingers splayed across the hard plane of his abdomen, searching for some response, some proof that she had not misread him entirely. But what she found was the rapid, shallow flutter of his breath, the subtle quake that ran every time her fingers moved. He was a fortress ringed by emptiness, and yet she could feel that emptiness contracting, making room for her inside it. Her own heart pounded, equal parts adrenaline and something else, not fear, not exactly, but its opposite: the terror of being wanted, of being allowed to close the distance.
The water flattened her hair to her skull and ran in trickles down the knobs of her spine, but she barely registered the heat anymore; every nerve was tuned to the calibration of his body against hers. She realized with a start that he’d stopped bracing himself against the wall and was now simply standing, arms slack at his sides, as if he didn’t know what to do with hands that weren’t built for hurting or holding weapons. She slid one hand to his chest, feeling the jagged thump of his heart. The intimacy of it was obscene and innocent at once.
She understood it then; he needed her to be the one who reached out, who made the space between them less dangerous. She pressed herself tighter, chest to back, and let her lips brush the edge of his shoulder, soft and deliberate and more honest than any word she could offer. In that instant, something shifted inside him. He turned, slow and unsure, until he was facing her, water running in wild rivers down his face and neck. For a second, their eyes met, and in his she saw nothing of the predator, only a boy caught in the act of needing something he could not name.
She brought one wet hand up to his cheek, thumb tracing the sharp line of his jaw, and he leaned into it, seeking the comfort. The tableau would have been absurd, almost laughable, if not for the way his hands finally found her, tentative and reverent, as if she was the only thing in the world that could anchor him now.
He gathered her hands in his, "Your hands were meant for healing," he whispered, his voice cracking. He finally looked at her, his eyes hollowed out by a self-loathing so deep it seemed to age him a decade in the span of a breath. "Not for scrubbing my sins off the floor. Not for this. I look at you and I see everything I don't deserve," he admitted, the words spilling out with a jagged, desperate honesty. "Everything I’ve spent my life destroying in other people. Everything I’ve taken."
He sighed, shaking his head, "I should have let you walk away," he rasped, his gaze searching hers, pleading for an answer he didn't think he wanted. "I gave you the door. I gave you a way out of this bloodbath. Why didn't you run when you had the chance? Why are you still standing in the middle of my wreckage?"
"You’re drowning. And maybe it’s the nurse in me, or maybe I’m just as wrecked as you are, but I’ve never been able to stand on the shore and watch someone go under. I’m here for the man who thinks he doesn't deserve to be saved."
The silence that followed was different than the one in the car. It wasn't heavy with secrets; it was vibrating with the sheer force of his realization. Tama’s hands, still shaking, finally found her hips. They were tentative at first, reverent, as if he expected her to shatter under his touch.
"You're gonna pull yourself down with me," he rasped, his grip finally tightening, pulling her flush against him. "Everything is exposed now. My sins, my failures… they're all hanging here in the light. You can see exactly what I am now. Are you sure you wanna be the only witness to what happens next?"
“I'm not scared.” She'd said it, and it didn't feel like a bluff. If anything, she felt the cold clarity of that truth in every nerve ending. She wasn't scared of him. Not the man, not the violence, not even the aftermath. Her whole life, fear had been an early warning system, her father’s rages, the slow-curling chaos of her mother’s loss, terror layered into the soft tissue of her day-to-day. By comparison, Tama’s volatility was a pure element. It didn’t traffic in petty cruelties or the creeping dread of abandonment. His wounds were all on the surface, so raw they bordered on transparency.
She let her weight settle against him, chest to chest, water flattening them together. There was a kind of relief, a sick, settling safety in being so thoroughly, anihilatingly seen.
When the water ceased, it was less a gesture than an act of exhaustion. Tama flicked the handle with the back of his hand, then sagged into the wall as the roar shrank to a stuttering drip. For a near-comical interval they just stood there, slick and steaming, awaiting further instructions from the universe. Eventually he reached for a towel, wrapped it awkwardly around her first, as if fearing she might still vanish, then cloaked himself in the next.
They moved to the bedroom, each step leaving a damp comet-trail on the stone tiles, and collapsed together onto the black duvet, gravity overcoming any pretense of separation. The towel she wore came loose almost immediately, pooling at her waist; she made no move to reclaim it. He sat at the edge of the bed at first, elbows propped on knees, spine arched like a man hosting a cage match in his mind. She reached out, laid a hand in the valley between his shoulders, and for a time neither of them spoke.
When he did speak, his voice was the gritted-low of someone reciting a script learned in a different life. “I don't know how to do this. Romance. Love…” He didn’t look at her, “Maybe in another life I could be soft…tender, I don't know.”
She wanted to laugh, maybe she did, slightly, a wet hiccup from deep in her chest. “You don't know what you're capable of,” she said, and for a second she thought he might shatter from the absurdity, the gentleness of it.
He laid down beside her, smoothed a section of her damp hair flat against her cheek, and smiled softly, “I’m the worst decision you've ever made.” he said, and she heard the echo of every impossibly tired man who’d tried and failed to fix the leak in his own soul before it drowned the room.
She didn’t let him finish. “I’m not here to fix you. This isn’t a rescue mission.” Cameron cut in, and only after did she realize how much she’d wanted a fight, just to prove they were both still human.
He was quiet after that.
By increments, Cameron let herself calibrate to the dimensions of his silence. He touched her only in the most unguarded ways, a palm splayed flat on her hip, the briefest brush over her bicep as if checking for bruises she hadn’t yet registered. He rolled away after a while, dragging an arm over his forehead so only the bridge of his nose was visible. “I don't want you to think that…that I can give you what you want. Or that I can be better than this.”
Her pulse thrummed, a bone-deep ache, somewhere below her fidelity to self-preservation, because the words resembled honesty more than apology. She rolled onto her back, exhaling up at the sharp geometry of the ceiling.
“I’m not looking for promises,” she said,
He grunted and pushed himself upright, bracing on an elbow, but the words seemed stuck somewhere in the narrow channel between his ribs and his throat. For a long moment he just watched her, the ridgeline of his brow shadowing his eyes, and she understood that he was testing each possible sentence for its ability to survive in the air between them. He looked away, jaw flexing, and when he returned his gaze to her, something had shifted, less shield, more open wound.
“I can promise you one thing,” Tama said, the line carving itself out of him with clinical precision, “and that’s protection.” His hand, which had been a claw at the sheets, released and hovered over the small of her back, not quite touching, not quite sure if it should. “Maybe I’m not capable of love, but I am capable of being your safe place.” He said ‘safe’ as if it was an alien word, something learned by rote from an underground language. His body was close and tense, as if expecting a blow, but his voice held steady, the threat of honesty more terrifying than violence.
The most dangerous thing about him, she realized, was not his capacity for violence, but rather the dogged, pitiful hope that clung to his words like static. In that moment, he seemed younger, unmasked, a man who had not yet learned how to live with mercy.
She gathered her hair in her fist and twisted it, squeezing out a few droplets onto the towel, and then let her hand fall between their bodies, inches from his. “If that’s all you can promise,” she said, “it’s already more than anyone else ever has.” The weight of it landed between them, a third presence, electric and fragile.
She realized with a shock that she was shivering, though she was not cold. “Just—don’t lie. Not to me, not to yourself.” The words felt heavier than their mass, and she wondered if she meant them for him or for herself. She reached out, tracing her finger along the seam where his shoulder met the meat of his bicep, feeling the vibration there, the way he tried to hold himself so still. In that small gesture she tried to communicate what she could not quite say aloud; if this was the only version of intimacy they could manage, it was still better than the absence that came before.
He closed the gap, finally, with a palm against her lower back, the heat of it astonishing, and drew her in, not for sex but for shelter. He said nothing more, but his hands told the rest; the feather-light mapping of her spine, the careful clutch at her hip, the minute tremors betraying the effort of holding her gently, of not mistaking violence for care.
For a long time neither of them moved, the silence not awkward but absolute, as if the world outside the room had been cauterized out of existence. When sleep claimed him, he curled half around her, a shield more than a shroud, and she let herself follow, eyes fixed on the shadows that gathered in the corners of the room.
She thought of the promise he had made, the boundaries of it, and beneath her ribs something loosened, a filament of want threaded with fear but also, impossibly, with hope.
They slept the way the wounded do; shallow, fitful, and tangled, but together.
Catch up here: Part 1 Part 2 Part 3 Part 4 Part 5 Part 6 Part 7
Two days later, the heavy doors of the clinic opened, and Tama walked in. He looked at his son, pale but breathing steadily on the monitors, and then looked at Cameron. The dark circles under his eyes spoke of a man fighting a war on two fronts. "I'm transferring him to the hospital today," Tama said, his voice flat, leaving no room for argument. "My men have secured the entire top floor of Mercy General. The doctors there are on my payroll."
Cameron paused, checking Kiko's IV line. "He's stable enough to move, but the transport is risky."
"He can't stay here. The estate is a fortress, but it’s also a target," Tama replied heavily. He stepped closer, his gaze dropping to where her hands rested on the rail of the bed. "I need you to take him, Cameron. Ride in the transport. Make sure he stays breathing until he’s behind their doors."
For a moment, Cameron thought he might refuse to let her out of the house, might retreat back into the old violence, the old certainty of keeping his possessions locked away. But he was trusting her with his legacy outside his walls.
The transport was a blur of tactical vests, black SUVs, and blinding ambulance lights. Cameron sat in the back with Kiko, monitoring his vitals like a hawk while heavily armed enforcers flanked them on all sides. When they finally rolled him through the secure, private entrance of the hospital, Kiko opened his eyes groggily.
He looked at Cameron, the practiced sneer and cultivated boredom of his teenage years washed away, replaced with something raw and naked. He looked like a child, lost in a world he’d only pretended to understand. His lips were parched and cracked; his skin, once the tawny gold of someone who lived outdoors, looked sallow and almost translucent under the fluorescent lights. The monitors above his bed charted the faltering stutter of his heart, the shallow draw of each breath, as if his body still wasn’t convinced it was allowed to keep living. “Where’s my mom?” he rasped, voice barely clearing the phlegm in his throat. The syllables sounded wrong in his mouth, as if he’d never practiced saying them before.
Cameron felt her own face tighten, a cold knot twisting behind her sternum. “Just rest, Kiko,” she said, and smoothed the rumpled blanket over his legs. Her hand lingered for a moment, as if the mere act of tucking him in could shield him from the layered betrayals unfolding outside.
———
Two weeks later the rain fell in sheets, a cold, biting downpour that turned the manicured lawns of the cemetery into a sea of grey and green.
It was a stark, brutal contrast to the opulent, gilded cage of the syndicate. A sea of black umbrellas surrounded the gravesite, held by dozens of massive, silent men in dark suits. The Italians had drawn blood, and the entire underground was watching to see how the Tama would bury his dead.
Cameron stood near the front, wrapped in a heavy black wool coat Elena had left in her room that morning. She wasn't hidden in the back, and she wasn't treated like a prisoner. Tama had placed her exactly two steps behind his right shoulder. It was a silent, terrifying message to everyone present: She is mine, and she is untouchable.
Tama stood sentry at the edge of his Kalina’s grave, motionless against the relentless rain. The deluge soaked through his tailored jacket and sheeted over his face, but he didn’t flinch or blink, didn’t so much as reach up to wipe the water from his eyes. He simply looked down, one hand wrapped around the other wrist in a white-knuckled grip as the casket began its slow descent. The people assembled behind him saw a pillar of control, an architect of violence rendered immovable in the rawness of loss. If any of them wondered at the absence of sorrow on his face, they kept it to themselves. All were careful not to meet his eyes too long, as if each expected him to mistake their curiosity for treachery and answer it accordingly.
Cameron, standing in the shivering crowd , watched him with a kind of anthropological fascination. There was nothing performative in his grief, it was not the public keening of a man undone, but something so private and well-defended that even he seemed unsure where to find it. If his wife’s passing had left a mark, it was only in the way he’d begun carrying himself. The world had demanded so much hardness from him that he’d stopped noticing when it calcified around the softer places.
Kiko sat to his father’s left, the wheelchair angled so the boy could see the casket’s descent without obstruction. The black of his jacket and trousers matched the ceremonial austerity of the day. His eyes tracked every movement; the lowering of the casket, the priest’s hands, the workers fitting their winch to the ropes with brisk, impersonal efficiency, yet none of it seemed to register as fully real. He looked like a boy who had wandered into a tableau of his own life, tasked with observing every detail for later interrogation by men who never smiled.
There was a point, midway through the service, when Tama’s hand twitched at his side. The movement was so slight it could have been mistaken for a shiver, except that he was the only one not shivering, the only one immune to the cold that had everyone else stamping their feet and blowing into their fists. He did not reach for his son, not then. Instead, he clenched his left hand into a fist and kept it locked behind his back, the tendons in his forearm drawn tight as cables. It was the closest he would come, Cameron realized, to falling apart.
The crowd was an ecosystem unto itself: his lieutenants, their wives and children, a handful of business associates whose faces Cameron recognized. There were also two or three women who might, in another context, have been called mistresses; here, they watched the proceedings with impassive eyes, their lips pressed into identical lines of grief. In the very back, near the open gate, stood a group of men whose clothes and posture marked them as outsiders. Rivals, maybe. Or scavengers. The rain made it impossible to see their faces, but Cameron could feel their attention pulsing through the crowd, a collective, silent calculation of what this death would mean for the balance of power.
The rite neared its conclusion. The priest, an elderly Tongan man, stepped forward and recited the ancient prayers, his words swallowed by the roar of the downpour. The first handful of dirt struck the lid of the casket with a sound like a single drumbeat, and Kiko flinched, just once, just enough for Cameron to see it. Tama’s eyes flickered to the boy in that instant, and for a fraction of a second, something gentled in his expression. Not softness, exactly, but the recognition of a wound identical to his own.
Cameron felt her breath catch at the sight, as if she’d witnessed a rare animal step into the open, heedless of the hunters all around. She wanted to look away, to give the moment its privacy, but Tama’s gaze was locked on his son, and the boy, sensing it, stared straight ahead with the unyielding stare of someone daring the world to pity him.
The priest finished his prayer. Another handful of earth. The sound was duller this time, muted by mud and moisture. Kiko’s hands gripped the arms of the wheelchair so tightly that the knuckles went white. Tama’s fist relaxed, and after a moment, he stepped forward. The crowd parted for him, reflexively, as if intimidated by his proximity to active grief.
He stopped at Kiko’s side. For a long time, he simply stood there. Cameron could see the internal struggle play across his profile: a man at war with himself, desperate for a gesture that wouldn’t betray the severity of his loss. Finally, with a deliberateness that made the entire gathering hold its breath, Tama placed his palm on his son’s shoulder. The contact was brief but unyielding, as if staking a claim on the boy’s remaining strength, or perhaps lending him some of his own.
When the ceremony ended and the sea of black umbrellas began to disperse toward the idling motorcade, Tama finally turned. His dark eyes met Cameron's through the rain. The exhaustion and the violence in his gaze were warring with something else; a dark, desperate need for the woman who had kept his son from being the one in that grave.
He held his hand out to her, palm up, waiting in the rain.
When she took it, his hand was cold and damp, the skin rough. Not the hand of a monster, but of a man who had destroyed and built, sometimes in the same gesture.
Tama’s grip tightened, and Cameron realized he was steadier with her than without. He leaned in, lips close to her ear, voice a hoarse, battered whisper. “I’m putting him on the plane to New Zealand tonight.”
They stepped together through the throng of mourners, people shuffling aside to let them pass. Each face turned away, some with sympathy, others with curiosity, but none dared linger on the pair. What would they see if they stopped to look? Perhaps a dangerous man and the woman in his orbit, or two people finding balance in each other’s gravity when the world had knocked them both askew.
———
A sleek, unmarked Gulfstream jet idled on the runway, its engines whining over the sound of the storm. Two enforcers stood by the stairs, waiting to help Kiko board. The teenager was leaning heavily on a pair of sleek crutches, his face still pale from the blood loss, looking incredibly small against the backdrop of the massive aircraft.
Tama stood in front of him, the rain soaking into the shoulders of his dark suit. His rigid posture was gone, replaced by the heavy, slumping burden of a father who was amputating a piece of his own heart to save it.
"I should stay," Kiko argued, his voice cracking, trying to muster the arrogance of the heir he had been raised to be. He gripped the handles of his crutches tightly. "I'm seventeen. I can hold a gun. I should be here to help you kill the people who did this to Mom."
"No," Tama said. His voice was a low, definitive rumble that cut through the whine of the jet engines. "You don't pick up a gun. You never pick up a gun."
"Why?" Kiko shot back, tears of grief and frustration welling in his eyes. "You did! Uncle Loa did! This is our family!"
Tama took a step closer, placing his massive hands on his son's shoulders. The sheer size difference between them was staggering.
"Look at me," Tama commanded gently. When Kiko finally met his eyes, Tama’s face was completely bare of its usual terrifying mask. "I picked up a gun so you would never have to. I built this empire in the dark so you could stand in the light. But your mother and I… we were arrogant. We thought distance and money could keep the blood off your hands. We were wrong."
Kiko swallowed hard, his jaw trembling.
"They looked at you and saw a vulnerability they could exploit to break me," Tama continued, his voice thick with a devastating mixture of guilt and resolve. "As long as you are here, you are a target. And I will not bury you."
"So you're just banishing me?" Kiko choked out. "I'm just supposed to run away and pretend none of this happened?"
"I am not banishing you. I am freeing you," Tama corrected, his grip tightening on the boy's shoulders. "The property in New Zealand is a fortress, but it’s not a prison. You have a new name waiting for you there. A clean slate. You’re going to finish your education. You are going to live a quiet, boring, life. And you are going to forget any of this ever existed."
"I can't forget her," Kiko whispered, finally breaking. A sob tore from his throat, his head dropping forward. "I can't."
Tama’s own eyes squeezed shut for a fraction of a second. He pulled his son forward, wrapping his massive arms around the boy in a fierce, desperate embrace, ignoring the awkward angles of the crutches. He buried his face in Kiko's dark hair.
"I know," Tama rumbled, the sound vibrating in his chest. "But you’ll survive it. Because you are my son. And you are stronger than this."
He held Kiko for a long moment.Finally, he pulled back, his hands resting on the boy's face, his thumbs wiping away the mixture of rain and tears.
"I love you. Now go," Tama ordered softly, stepping back to clear the path to the stairs. "Don't look back."
Kiko nodded, his face pale and wet, but his jaw set with a new, somber understanding. He didn't argue again. He turned and, with the help of the enforcers, slowly made his way up the stairs of the jet. He didn't look back before the heavy cabin door sealed shut behind him.
Tama stood on the tarmac, absolutely motionless in the driving rain, watching the jet taxi down the runway and lift into the dark, storm-filled sky. He watched until the blinking lights disappeared entirely into the clouds.
Only then did he turn around.
He looked exhausted. Stripped raw. The empire was crumbling, his family was shattered, and the only thing left standing on the board was the woman waiting for him by the SUV. He walked slowly toward Cameron, the rain running down his face, his eyes seeking hers like a man looking for a lifeline in a dark ocean.
The heavy thud of the SUV door closing was like a guillotine blade, severing them from the world of tarmac, rain, and Tama’s son. Inside, the cabin was a tomb of leather and silence.
For a long beat, Tama didn't move. He sat rigidly on the bench seat, his hands resting on his thighs, his head bowed. Water dripped from his suit jacket onto the floor mats, a steady, rhythmic sound that was the only thing filling the space.
Then, the armor simply disintegrated.
It wasn't a loud collapse. There were no shouts, no dramatic displays of grief. It was just a sharp, jagged hitch in his breathing, followed by the sight of his massive shoulders beginning to shake. The King who had just exiled his own blood to save him was suddenly gone, replaced by a man who looked like he was drowning in the middle of a dry room.
He didn't look at her, but he reached out. His hand found Cameron’s arm in the dark, his fingers digging into the wool of her coat with a terrifying, desperate strength.
"Cameron," he rasped, his voice breaking on her name.
She didn't wait for him to ask. She slid across the seat, closing the distance until she could wrap her arms around his broad, rain-soaked shoulders. The moment she touched him, Tama folded. He turned into her, burying his face in the crook of her neck, his hands fumbling to pull her flush against his chest.
He was trembling, a deep, rhythmic shudder that felt like tectonic plates shifting. He didn't cry, but he held her with a frantic, suffocating intensity, his fingers tangling in the hair at the back of her head. He was breathing her in, using her to anchor himself to the present.
"He's gone," Tama whispered against her skin, the words vibrating with a raw, agonizing hollow. "I sent him away. My son is a ghost now. I’ve made him a ghost."
Cameron held him tighter, her cheek resting against the damp silk of his hair. She could feel the rapid, frantic thud of his heart against her own ribs. In the dark, private safety of the car he was finally letting himself drift.
"You gave him a life, Tama," she murmured, her hand tracing the tense muscles of his back. "That isn't a ghost. That's a future."
He didn't pull back. He just stayed there, a broken warlord clinging to the only person left in his world who didn't want a piece of his crown. The adrenaline that had carried him through the burial and the airport had completely bled out, leaving nothing but the crushing weight of his choices.
For the first time since she had arrived at the estate, the power dynamic was gone. He wasn't the King, and she wasn't the captive. They were just two people finding balance in each other’s gravity when the world had knocked them both askew.
As the SUV pulled away from the airfield and began the long, silent trek back to the fortress that was now empty of everyone but them, Tama finally let out a long, shuddering breath. He pulled back just enough to look at her, his eyes bloodshot and weary, searching her face in the intermittent glow of the passing streetlights.
"Don't leave," he whispered, his thumb dragging across her cheekbone. It wasn't a command this time. it was a plea. "Stay until the end."
They left the SUV and entered the house together, side by side, as though they had lived this way for years. The guards at the front entrance tried not to meet their eyes, heads lowered, their shoulders hunched in the posture of men who had witnessed too much and could not unsee.
On the marble-floored foyer, water pooled at their feet, their footsteps echoing up the staircase. Cameron hesitated at the landing, thinking he would let go, retreat to the library or his bedroom to drown in whatever old world rituals kept his mind from collapse. But Tama’s hand was relentless. He took her by the hand, his grip gentle but inescapable, and drew her down the corridor, not toward the west wing, where she spent her nights, but to the far end where the master suite loomed.
She felt every inch of hallway as a procession, a funeral march for the life that had existed here just days ago. At the threshold to the master suite, Tama paused and looked down at her, some question flickering in his eyes, as if even now he wasn’t sure how to ask for comfort, or if he deserved it.
Cameron answered by stepping forward, her palm pressed flat against his chest, feeling the tremor of his heart through the fine cotton of his shirt. She pushed gently, guiding him through the double doors.
Tama sat on the edge of the bed and, for a moment, simply stared at the floor, hands braced on his knees. Cameron watched him, seeing the exhaustion in his posture, the way his body seemed to be held together now by willpower alone. Without a word, she knelt before him, tugging at his shoes, peeling them from his feet one by one. He let her do it, head bowed, as if the ritual was sacred and she its only priest.
She moved to stand between his knees, Tama reached for her then, pulling her into his lap and folding her into his arms. This time, the embrace was not desperate, not a drowning man clinging to driftwood, but something softer, more human; a slow recognition that, for all he had lost, he still had the capacity to hold and be held.
They stayed that way through the hush that followed, his face pressed into her shoulder, her arms wrapped around his neck. She stroked the back of his head, feeling the coarseness of his hair, the heat of his scalp beneath her fingers, as if she could touch the storm still raging inside him.
Finally, Tama pulled back, his eyes searching hers for something she could not name. He pressed his forehead to hers and closed his eyes.
“Stay,” he said quietly, his voice stripped bare. “I don’t wanna wake up alone.”
Cameron nodded. She didn’t trust herself to answer out loud.
She slipped her clothes off and drew back the comforter then crawled into the bed. Tama hesitated for a second, then followed, stretching out beside her, his long body a shield at her back. He arranged the blankets around them with a care that bordered on reverence, as though building a cocoon in which the world could not intrude. He pulled her close, his arms a cage that felt more like sanctuary than captivity.
They lay in the dark, listening to the wind rattle the windows, the sound of the storm outside a reminder that the world was still spinning, no matter how broken it felt. For a moment, nothing hurt. Not the bruises, not the grief, not the empty spaces. Just the quiet, impossible fact of survival.
And that was enough.
----
Cameron woke to the peculiarly gentle sensation of warmth brushing the side of her throat. It took a moment for her to realize that the soft, almost reverent pressure was not a part of some lingering dream, but belonged to the world beyond sleep. She surfaced slowly, her awareness moving from the weight of the duvet against her legs to the sleep-heavy ache at the base of her skull, then finally to the precise locus of contact; the faint, damp pressure of lips at her collarbone.
Tama’s mouth.
She became aware, in a rippling sequence of revelations, that her body had curled itself backward during the night, nestling her into the dense wall of heat that was Tama’s chest. His arms were still wrapped around her midsection, a loose but unyielding loop, his breath a steady current against the shell of her ear. Even more disorienting was the realization that he had not slept, or if he had, he had returned from it before her and spent the intervening time simply holding her, his thumb absently stroking the bare skin of her hip as though reminding himself she was real, that both of them were.
She half-expected the embrace to break, for Tama to recollect himself and reassemble the day’s armor before she opened her eyes. Instead, his lips pressed a second, longer kiss into the angle where her neck met her shoulder. His beard scratched lightly at her skin, tugging her more fully into waking. Cameron’s eyelids drifted open to the slate gray twilight of morning leaking through the balcony doors. The sky outside was still heavy with remnants of the storm, but inside, the world was all body heat and the lingering scent of his skin.
She dared a glance, tilting her head just enough to see him above her. Tama’s eyes were open, but unfocused, staring at some point beyond the horizon of the bedroom, as if he was still trying to make sense of the day before. There was a rawness to his features that made him almost unrecognizable from the man who had commanded entire rooms with a word. Even now, he looked like a king caught in the crossfire of his own grief, but there was no trace of self-pity in his face; only the stunned, quiet awe of a man who had survived a storm by washing up on a stranger’s shore.
She was not sure whether to speak or simply exist in the strange, beautiful quiet. She opted for the latter, letting herself be held, letting his hand rest heavy on her stomach, letting the world narrow to the places where his skin met hers. The vulnerability was staggering.
Tama finally blinked, the movement slow and deliberate. He shifted behind her, his arms pulling her back more tightly, and when he spoke, his lips were so close to her ear she felt the words before she heard them.
“Mornin’,” he said, voice roughened by sleep and something more elemental.
She twisted in his grasp, moving with the slow, psychological caution of someone approaching a fragile animal, or a sleeping child, careful not to startle him or herself. She felt the resistance, the momentary tightening of Tama’s arm around her ribs as if he feared she was trying to escape, and then the reluctant, yielding slack as he allowed her to roll over and meet him face-to-face.
Their bodies reoriented with new symmetry; her thigh brushing his, knees bumping under the sheet, her hands braced against the warm, living plane of his chest. The intimacy of the moment threatened to dissolve her, but she kept her eyes open, absorbing the sight of him in this unguarded state.
Tama’s face was a study in exhaustion and something else, something like devastation. The corners of his mouth were downturned, lips pressed in a line that seemed to beg for reprieve. He blinked as she turned, and for a moment she could see the man as he had been as a boy; lonely, unsure, aching for an anchor.
She reached up and, without thinking, tucked a lock of his wild morning hair behind his ear. His eyes tracked her hand the way a stray might, wary but hopeful. For a few beats, neither said anything. They lay in the hush, listening to the wind, the soft shush of their own breathing, the creak of the headboard as their bodies flexed toward each other and held.
Then, as if rehearsed, she mirrored his gesture from the night before, pressing her forehead to his and closing her eyes. She felt the bridge of his nose against hers, the heat of his breath. In that proximity nothing could be hidden; not the bitterness of loss, not the need for comfort, not the almost-embarrassed hope that this could be enough, at least for a morning.
She pressed her lips to his, tentative at first, as if testing the bounds of their reality. The contact was a question and an answer at the same time, a silent admission that the ache inside her could be lessened, if only for this fractured moment. His mouth was warm, slack with fatigue, but he answered her in kind, a gentle, almost startled reciprocity, as though he’d forgotten this was allowed, this simple, desperate seeking of closeness. Her hand slid to his jaw, she felt him tense, then soften under her touch.
For a heartbeat, neither of them moved beyond the kiss, just the press of lips, the mingling of breath, the measured uncertainty of two people who had run out of language and now spoke in the grammar of skin. Tama’s hand, still braced at her waist, flexed, drawing her fractionally closer. There was hunger here, yes, but it was the hunger of the bereft, the last meal before a famine, not the frenzied rush of easy infatuation. In the small, bright pocket of morning, they let themselves be two bodies with nothing left to prove, nothing left to promise.
She parted from him, searching his eyes but found only that same raw yearning mirrored in dark, almost astonished eyes. He looked at her like a man newly acquainted with the possibility of peace. For the first time she could remember, Cameron felt herself settling, not into certainty, but into the strange, persistent hope that survival was more than just inertia, that it could be a kind of quiet grace.
Tama exhaled, a slow, deliberate release, and rolled on top of her with a heaviness that was less about lust than gravity, as if their bodies, untethered from the rationale of waking life were submissive to a new physical law that drew them together cell by cell. The shift in weight startled a gasp from Cameron, not of protest, but of relief, as if she’d been holding her breath since sleep and only now remembered how to let go. She felt him settle above her, the breadth of his body eclipsing hers completely, a full-body shadow more comforting than oppressive.
He braced himself on his forearms, one on either side of her head, and for a moment looked down at her like he was memorizing the exact geometry of her face. He kissed her again, more deeply this time, mouth opening to taste her, but still with that almost reverent gentleness, like he remembered too well how easy it was to destroy something fragile. She reached up to touch his face, her thumb tracing the faint indentation of a bruise at his chin, the smallest shudder running through him at the contact. Every part of him was a map of damage; cuts, scars, the distinct ache of muscles asked to do too much, but when he entered her, all Cameron could feel was the clean, singular heat of his want, stripped of pretext or bravado.
His hand slipped to her hip, fingers splayed as if to anchor himself, and she arched up instinctively, desperate to fill whatever absence the night had left in her. Their bodies fit together not with the practiced ease of lovers, but with the surprise of two castaways finding, by accident, the same shore. Each movement was a negotiation, her knees bracketing his thighs, his hand gripping her breast, her breath catching at the hollow of his throat, until there was no longer any question of where one ended and the other began.
It was not a fevered rush, but a slow, echoing communion, like two prayers recited back and forth, each word an offering. Neither of them shut their eyes, unwilling to lose even a second of the other’s unguarded gaze. In this way, they held each other, the certainty of their clasp as absolute as gravity.
You must have gotten a concussion, she wanted to say, or I’m dreaming, or maybe we’re both just ghosts, refusing to leave the world no matter how much it hurt to stay in it. But the words died at her lips, replaced by the certainty of his hands, the measured insistence of his mouth, the unspoken promise that, at least for this morning, they were neither broken nor alone.
He canted her hips higher up, shifting the angle with a deftness that made her pulse stutter, and suddenly every point of contact between them was magnified, a circuit of heat and pressure that left her gasping. She could feel the bruising tenderness of his grip, the raw urgency in the way his fingers dug into the small of her back, but there was also a carefulness, as if he was afraid of both hurting her and letting her go. His body formed a shield around her, a cocoon of muscle and bone and battered skin, and though she’d never thought of herself as small or needing protection, in that moment she surrendered to it, letting the span of his shoulders and the rough exhale of his breath define the boundaries of her world. She arched instinctively, the motion met by a slow, deliberate thrust that sent a shockwave of sensation up her spine.
Her hands clutched at his arms, searching for leverage, for something solid to anchor herself to, but instead found the slick slide of sweat, the erratic jump of his pulse beneath her palms. The headboard tapped rhythmically against the wall, a quiet percussion that marked time in a language older than words. She closed her eyes, only for a heartbeat, and let herself dissolve into the ebb and swell of their bodies together, the shivering build of pressure, the quicksilver flicker of pleasure and need.
Each movement was a request, each gasp a response. It felt less like fucking and more like an argument, or a negotiation; two people fighting to prove that their bruises could coexist, that the sum of them might amount to a whole. Tama’s head dropped to the curve of her shoulder, and she felt his teeth graze the skin there, an engraving of sensation that made her arch again, desperate for more. His breath came in ragged bursts, every exhale laced with her name, or what almost sounded like it, spoken half in prayer, half in warning.
She was distantly aware of the world outside the bed; the brittle gray sunlight, the faint roar of traffic far below, the last remnants of rain streaking the glass of the balcony doors. But here, in the hush between heartbeats, time compressed and expanded at once until nothing existed except the press and yield of their bodies, the slide of his hands up her ribs, the moment he laced his fingers through hers against the pillow as though they’d done this a thousand times. And when she finally tipped over, it was not with the violence she expected, but with a quiet, shuddering surrender, like falling asleep mid-sentence and trusting the story would continue without her.
A sound shattered the rhythm, a sharp rapping at the bedroom door that might as well have been a gunshot for the way it torqued the moment. In a split second, every muscle in her body seized, and for a moment it was unclear if the knock belonged to the world outside or was just the echo of her own heart, slamming against the cage of her ribs. Tama jerked his head upright, face contorted with the primal fury of a beast startled in its den, eyes wide and white in the dim light as if already calculating whether to fight or flee. He kept moving, hips refusing to cede their momentum, but the violence of the interruption was palpable in the way his jaw set, in the way his hands, once gentle, now gripped with a desperation that bordered on panic.
Cameron could smell the sweat on his skin, feel the tremble in his thighs as he struggled to straddle the gap between animal need and alpha discipline. She reached for the sheets out of a half-formed instinct to cover herself, but Tama’s arm pinned her with a protectiveness that was almost possessive, as if by holding her body down he could hold the world at bay. The knock came again, louder this time, insistent, and she could hear the muffled sound of voices on the other side; low, urgent, the cadence of men who would only disturb him if something truly mattered.
“Mother fucker!” Tama bellowed, voice muffled against her shoulder, the raw edge of the curse vibrating through both their bodies. He didn’t stop. If anything, he doubled down, as if to assert by force of will that nothing, not even the end of the world, would strip him of this one, stolen moment. The headboard slammed harder against the wall. Cameron bit down on her lip to keep from laughing, or screaming, or both. She felt the surge of adrenaline claw through her chest, the sudden shift from intimacy to siege so abrupt it left her lightheaded.
He raised his head just enough to fix the door with a look of such lethal contempt that Cameron almost pitied whoever was on the other side. “What?” Tama roared, the word weaponized, calibrated to wound. Silence, then a rustle, as if someone was parsing the wisdom of answering.
There was a beat of silence, just long enough for Cameron to hope the knock had been a hallucination, then a reply shot through the wood as if the voice itself had teeth: “Boss, need you downstairs.” Even through the muffling of the door, she heard the brittle edge of fear in the messenger’s voice, the way it sawed at the vowels, at the word “need.” It wasn’t a request, this was something more jagged, like a cry of warning masked as an order. The voice didn’t belong to any of the regulars, none of the surly, veteran lieutenants who would threaten a slow death to anyone who interrupted Tama mid-fuck unless the building was actively on fire. This was a lower register, one of the new kids, probably, not yet fully aware that the only thing more dangerous than a bullet in this house was Tama Tonga in the morning, naked and deprived of sleep.
Cameron’s first impulse was to shrink, to become as small and invisible as possible, to fold herself into the mattress and let the whole thing blow over. But Tama’s body remained a barricade above her, tense and unmoved, his single-minded focus undiluted by the outside threat. He made no move to release her, if anything, his weight settled more heavily atop her, so that she felt the inevitability of him not as an act but as a state of nature. His hands, once so measured, dug into the sheets at her shoulders with a force that bordered on violence, and for a moment she wondered if he even remembered the world beyond the bed, or if it had simply ceased to exist.
There was another tremor of footsteps in the hallway, a nervous shifting of weight that suggested the messenger was still lurking just out of sight, maybe cycling through a mental list of all the ways he could die for this intrusion. Tama didn’t look at the door. He looked at Cameron. He bared his teeth in a silent snarl and began to move again, thrusting with a raw, rhythm that spoke less to pleasure than to punishment, as if he could fuck the interruption out of existence. The air in the room grew thick, electric; Cameron could feel her own heart pounding, a war-drum counterpoint to the headboard’s renewed assault on the wall.
She realized, with a flicker of shame, that the urgency outside only heightened the intensity inside, that the threat made every sensation sharper, every collision of their bodies a dare. She tried to keep quiet, to tamp down the noise of her own breath, but Tama’s name escaped her lips in a hiss. He shuddered above her, the muscles in his back rippling with the effort to contain some rage that had nothing to do with her, and everything to do with the world pressing in on all sides.
He came apart with a strangled sound, a shiver that ran the length of his body, and collapsed onto her, bearing her down into the mattress with all the spent weight of a man who had resisted surrender and lost. His face pressed hard against hers, forehead to cheek, mouth near her ear and exhaling a tremulous staccato of breath, equal parts relief and disbelief. For a moment, he didn’t move, not even to shift his weight or catch himself on an elbow, as if the only thing holding him together was the shape of her body beneath his.
She lay pinned beneath him, chest fluttering with the aftershock, feeling every inch of his heart’s wild percussion through the tight crush of their bodies. His arms boxed her head, fists clenched in the pillow at either side of her skull. His jaw abraded the delicate skin at the edge of her jaw, and she realized that if she tried to move, even a little, she might shatter him.
His breath ghosted across her cheek, slow and uneven, like he was at the edge of weeping or laughter, and she felt in the tremor of his ribs that there was no civilization left to either of them in this moment. Only exhaustion, and the dense, collapsing gravity of desire spent but not stilled.
She waited. Waited for him to roll off, to collect himself, to become once again the man she only half-knew. Instead, he stayed, refusing even this small mercy of separation, and after a minute she realized he was not gathering strength but simply anchoring himself on her, using her warmth and nearness as a tether to prevent drifting back into the violent chaos of the waking world. The line between domination and solace blurred, his weight, once a siege, became a balm, a rough embrace against the cold that pressed in from all sides.
Her hand crept up around his neck, fingers winding into his curls. She felt him swallow, hard, and when finally he shifted to look at her, his eyes were wet with exertion and something else, something raw and grateful and wordless. There was nothing left in her, not even a quip or a protest, only the sense that this, whatever it was, had changed the shape of the morning.
They stayed knotted together, immobilized not by fatigue but by some unspoken, mutual understanding that neither dared be the one to break the spell first. Beneath the thin sheen of sweat that slicked their bodies, Cameron felt the slow return of her own senses, the way the world, once muffled and distant, began to leak back into the hollow left by adrenaline. She tried to fix the moment in memory, Tama’s weight heavy and familiar on top of her, his breath still hot against her skin, as if by holding perfectly still, she could prolong the fragile détente between what they were inside this room and what waited for them on the other side of the door.
Eventually, time forced its way back in, first as a twitch in Tama’s thigh, then as a tightening of his grip on her shoulder. He nuzzled her cheek, the scrape of his beard almost tender now, and pressed his lips to the angle of her jaw. The kiss was softer than any before, less an act of seduction than a supplication, as if he needed her forgiveness for what he had just taken or for what he was about to leave behind. Slowly, he dragged his mouth across her cheekbone, then captured her lips with a practiced care that was at odds with his earlier ferocity, a silent apology for all that was about to be lost.
“Stay here,” he ordered, the consonants thudding against her skin, not a plea but an expectation. His voice was thick with the last dregs of heat and need; even the imperative felt like an act of intimacy, as if by willing her to remain he could keep some part of himself anchored in this bed, in her. Then the line between them gave way. He rolled off in a single, practiced movement, the mattress sighing beneath the subtraction of his weight, and for a brief second she felt the chill creep in where his body had been. He stood at the edge of the bed, back to her, muscles cut in high relief by the weak morning light, and fumbled on the floor for his pants.
His hands moved with the urgency of a man trained to readiness; in less than a heartbeat, he’d located the crumpled heap of pants and hauled them up over his hips. He glanced up at the door, expression already recalibrating from lover to warlord, and ran a hand through his hair, taming the wildness into something more suitable for command. For the first time since the knock, he looked at her as if seeing her from a distance, the distance of a man who knew the next moment could be his last and Cameron felt the rawness of abandonment bloom inside her, sharp and unaccountable.
Tama hesitated, one hand on the doorknob and the other bracing himself against the wall. His breathing had slowed, evened out, but the tremor in his shoulders betrayed the effort it took to keep the mask of composure in place. He glanced back at her, eyes narrowed and searching, as though he’d left something important behind or had to memorize the shape of her for later.
Then the door, and the waiting world. He cracked it just enough to peer through, voice pitched low and lethal: “What’s so goddamn urgent?”
Cameron curled onto her side, drawing her knees to her chest, and listened as the commotion in the hall ramped up, the messenger’s voice barely audible but desperate in its haste.
She closed her eyes and waited for the next impact.
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