Another plot twist ending
The universe has a sense of humor, Price decides when he sees you across the floor of the pub, clocking you before he even realizes his attention has snagged on you.
For a beat, his brain refuses it. Like his eyes have lied. Like the smoke and noise and pint glass glare have stitched your face together out of coincidence.
Then you lift your drink, laugh at something your friend says, and the sound hits him low in the ribs.
Out of all the pubs in all the cities in all the bloody world- here? Tonight?
He doesnât believe in fate. Doesnât believe in luck. But he does believe in opportunity, and the universe has just shoved one into his hands like a loaded weapon.
Price doesnât hesitate.
He smooths his expression into something easy and harmless- friendly bastard, not dangerous bastard- and starts moving before he can talk himself out of it. A practiced weave through bodies, a brief touch to a shoulder here, a murmured âsorry, mateâ there. Heâs careful not to look like heâs beelining. Careful not to spook you.
He gets close enough to hear your voice properly.
Close enough to see that you havenât noticed him yet.
And for one wicked second, he just watches.
Itâs indulgent. Itâs greedy. Itâs the kind of thing heâd call someone else out for. You look good; too good for a sticky floor pub and a night that probably started as just one drink. Thereâs a softness to you that doesnât match the hard edges of his life, and it makes something in him go sharp with want.
Your friend peels off first, headed to the bathroom or the jukebox, leaving you alone at the high top with your half finished drink and your phone facedown on the table.
Heâs charming, smooth as good whiskey, just a hint of bite under the honey. He leans in, lets your knee brush his, fingers skimming your thigh under the table as you talk. The conversation turns charged, teasing, your lips curling into a smirk every time he lets a little of that wolf show through. When he asks, âWant to get out of here?â your answer is quick, hungry.
You barely remember how you end up bent over his bed, but his hand is fisted tight in your hairPriceâs breath ghosts over the shell of your ear, words velvet rough as he leans in.
âThatâs it, love. Been thinking about this all night- about you, so fucking sweet, letting me have you just like this.â His tone drops, filthy and proud. âSay it. Let me hear you.â
You choke on a moan, needy and a little desperate. âDaddy- â
He groans, deep and approving, the sound almost a growl. You arch into him, shameless, hungry, and he laughs softly, that deep, pleased sound that rumbles in his chest. âGood girl,â he croons, dragging his fingers between your thighs, finding you already wet, already desperate. âLouder.â
The word spills out again, messy and shameless. âDaddy, please-â You whine, rolling your hips back against the bulge of his cock straining at his trousers, he rewards you with a sharper tug to your hair, a filthy growl low in his throat.
âSay it,â he demands, voice like smoke and command, his hand tightening in your hair. âLet me hear you, love. Tell me who you want.â
Youâre panting now, your cheeks hot, words caught between shame and craving. âYou,â you gasp. âWant you. Want- Daddy, please-â
He groans, a deep, guttural sound, and shoves your skirt up higher, his palm flat against your lower back, bending you deeper for him. âThatâs a good girl. Knew youâd sound so pretty begging for it.â He presses up behind you, grinding against the swell of your ass, the hard length of him insistent and unforgiving, his cock catching on your entrance before bullying his way inside your cunt. âGonna give you what you need, sweetheart. All of it. Not gonna stop until youâre shaking for me.â
You whimper, nails scraping the sheets, your body arching to meet every greedy push of his hips. He mouths filth against your ear: promises of what heâll do to you, how good you sound with his cock inside you, how much he loves you like this, open and needy.
Every time you call him Daddy he rewards you with a rough snap of his hips, a praise laced snarl in your ear. âThatâs it, sweetheart. Let everyone know whoâs fucking you tonight.â
His rhythm is unyielding, his hand tangled in your hair, the other splayed across your lower back, holding you down, controlling every movement. He gives you just enough- just the edge of pain, just the right amount of praise and filth, guiding you with a voice that turns command into worship.
And when you shatter- voice wrecked, fingers clawing the sheets, body trembling- he doesnât let up. He rides you through it, mouth pressed to your ear, cooing and crooning, a charming bastard right to the end as he buries his cock deep and fills you with his come.
âGood girl,â he rumbles, voice thick with hunger. âLook at you- perfect.â
The light in the flat is thin and gray, the kind that makes you question whether itâs dawn or just another storm rolling over the city. Youâre sprawled against Priceâs chest, tangled in his sheets, the sharp scent of him pressed into your skin and the ache of the night before still blooming low in your belly. You barely register the vibration on the nightstand until your phone starts shrieking a harsh, insistent sound that makes you flinch and fumble for it, blinking blearily at the caller ID.
You answer out of habit, voice scratchy and slurred with sleep. âHello?â
The voice on the other end is frantic, words tumbling over each other. You blink, trying to make sense of the noise, piecing together fragments- it was late, nobody saw, oh god, oh god-
You sit bolt upright, sheets falling from your shoulders, the room suddenly ice cold.
âWhat? No, no- what do you mean? That canât- just tell me- where is he? Who-â
Priceâs arm slips from around you as you twist away, clutching the phone to your ear, pulse racing. Your mind scrambles for coherence, for breath, but the world has shrunk to the sharp, static panic in your skull and the awful, broken sound in the callerâs voice.
You say the same thing over and over: No, no, no, this isnât real, please, no.
When you finally hang up, your hands are shaking so badly the phone nearly slips from your grip. Youâre half off the bed, hunched over, hair falling into your face. Price is sitting up, propped on one elbow, silent but watching with an unnerving, deliberate stillness.
You wipe your face with the back of your hand. Swallow. Try to breathe.
âI have to go,â you say, voice thin and uneven. âI need- I have to get home.â
He keeps his tone neutral, almost gentle. âWhat happened?â
You hesitate, still trembling, searching for words. âMy dad- he- someone killed him. Last night. In his office.â You stare at the wall, numb, and your next words come out raw, splintered, like they hurt to say âSomeone killed General Shepherd.â
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