The first rule of fandom is have fun. The second rule of fandom is find an enabler and become an enabler. Yes you should write that fic. What if it was even hornier? What if it was angstier? What if you wrote it just for me?
author’s note: was feeling crappy about how long updates for 'without you' take and decided to write this. it was an on the spot thing, so don't be expecting anything spectacular. also, i wanted it to be fluffy and angsty, but idk, reader and joe so nasty idk how to write them not being nasty. 😭
pairing: plussized!mistress!black!reader x roman reigns (joe)
warnings: angst. fluff. smut. vaginal penetration. oral (male and female receiving) dirty talk. unprotected sex. slight anal play. infidelity. they're just freaks. idk what else to say.
word count: 2.5k+
song inspo: ❝don't forget about us❞ by the mariah carey
credit: photos from pinerest // dividers by @/cafekitsune
Joe’s eyes flip open as he lowers his head just enough to focus on you. Blue locking with brown, but it’s the way his long, dark hair lays over his shoulders and across his chest that temporarily distracts you. Flashbacks of those beautiful tresses intertwined and locked between your fingers as you rode his face and once more as he fucked you up against the bathroom counter upon his arrival to the hotel exciting you for the next round.
Never mind the brief pang of soreness in between your legs. Inner thighs still damp, wet, and sticky from the latest round. 69. Hence the way you’re laid on your side, head propped up by your elbow towards the edge of the bed while he’s sat up against the headboard. The cream sheets covering his lap but not hiding the outline of his thick dick that you can already tell is slowly starting to harden once more.
Good.
You wanna feel him come in your mouth at least one more time before you two call it a night.
“What?”
His deep voice breaks you from the silence of the room and swirling of NSFW thoughts.
You roll your eyes. “I said you’re shy.” Your fingers tap against the sheets that you lazily pull to cover a portion of your exposed hip solely to shield your nude body from the chill of the room. The heat accumulated through frenzied fucking is starting to wane. “It’s cute.”
He chuckles and lifts his arm, one hand behind his head as he reclines deeper against the headboard you’re almost certain is one more round away from putting a hole in the wall. You make a mental note to tell him to put a pillow behind it before you two go at it again. “And you got this from what?”
“It’s an observation.” You shrug. “I mean, I noticed it a while ago, but I was watching you tonight interact with some of your fans—”
“Emphasis on some.”
A pause is taken solely to store the comment away for later revisiting. “And I could tell you were out of your element. Almost uncomfortable. You’re clearly introverted.”
Given that you’ve been to a handful of his shows already, it’s an observation you’d made relatively early on. But something about tonight, seeing the almost indecision he presented with in some of the interactions with fans like yourself that were granted a chance to meet him, it more or less confirmed it.
“Don’t worry,” you added, bitting down on your bottom lip. “I think it’s cute.”
“Cute?”
You adjust your body, fully aware of how his eyes temporarily shift to your dark nipples with a renewing hunger. “Yeah, I mean, it’s not often you meet a fine ass man with a big dick and every reason to be a cocky son of a bitch have your disposition. It’s nice.”
Joe makes a sound, eyes shutting once more. “I like to get a read on people before I open up, I guess.”
“That makes sense. I can’t relate, but—”
“Yeah, shy is a word I would never use to describe you. Not really me, either, but—”
“Oh, you’re definitely shy, Mr. Anoa’i,” you snort, pointing to yourself as if he can see it. “But me? Naw. For what? I’m fine as fuck. I have no reason to be.”
And neither does he, but that’s just him, so you’ll leave it be.
You watch the way his eyes open and full lips—those same lips you can still feel sucking and slurping on your clit like he’d been waiting for it all day—stretch into a sly smile. “You always been this confident?”
“Hell yeah.” His grin widens, as you list it off with all the ease in the world. “I’m pretty as hell, ass fat, titties big, and my pussy is top tier?” It’s that last one that makes him chuckle, something flashing in those blue contacts that, right now, you’re not a fan of. “Baby, God didn’t make me this fine for me to be on some shy shit.”
Nor insecure, because if there’s one thing you’ve never been able to relate to is big girls struggling with body insecurity. You understand it, sure, but it’s never once been a struggle of yours. You’ve never once looked in the mirror, fully clothed or butt ass naked, and didn’t like what you saw. Maybe…maybe once or twice, but nine times out of ten, nothing has ever reflected back except a bad bitch.
And when people make comments about fat girls and bigger bodies, it always makes you laugh, snort, roll your eyes, or a combination of them all. Because at the end of the day, no man has ever put you out of the bedroom, and no one ever will cause the fuck you look like granting a lame ass nigga premier pussy when his dick ain’t even big enough to not fall out when you bouncing on it?
“That’s one of the first things that attracted me to you, you know.” You look over at him as he starts to dance those talented fingers of his up your calf. “Your confidence.”
“Not my tits?”
“Those, too.”
You playfully kick him. He chuckles. “I’m serious. I love how you’re unapologetically yourself. Like you don’t give a fuck what anyone else thinks.”
“That’s cause I don’t.” Never have. Never will. As long as you’re good with you, your mama is proud of you, and you do right in the eyes of the Lord, everyone else is irrelevant. “And neither should you, you know.”
Your interest in wrestling prior to ever even meeting Joe was nothing close to the fanatic level. You still enjoyed it as an adult, but not nearly as much as you did when you were a kid. But you knew enough to know about the basic facts and major storylines. Even more, you knew enough to know how massively pushed Joe, Roman, was being right now. Unfortunately, the push against him by the fans seems just as strong.
If not stronger.
It was one thing for him to briefly mention certain things, or for a clip to come across your Instagram feed. But it was entirely different to see these things in person. To hear them.
Some of the cruel, hurtful, awful things hurled at him. And if it’s not words, then it’s items. And the boo’s. God, it’s hard for you to tell which is worse and which pisses you off more. On more than one occasion you’ve had to stop yourself from catching a charge and causing a scene. You’ve always had the golden rule of never ever fighting over a man, but they were pushing it.
And it wasn’t even for the traditional reasons women throw hands behind their ain’t shit niggas. It was….it was just wrong. To treat Joe the way some of these “fans” do is borderline inhumane. It makes you sick to your stomach.
But if you feel this way as someone who hasn’t even known the man for a whole year, who’s not even the one being crucified the way he is, you can’t imagine how it must be for him.
He doesn’t talk about it a whole lot—save that lil’ comment from a few minutes prior—but you don’t know any human being who wouldn’t be at least a little affected by such hate.
Especially when it’s unwarranted.
“Only miserable ass people with dry pussies and micro penises come at someone so hard for just doing their damn job,” you continue, moving to sit up on the bed, reaching for his shirt to pull over your body. It’s more than certain to be ripped off before the end of the hour, but there’s something about his scent….hence why you may or may not have started to hoard a collection of his items back at your place. “It’s pathetic, and it says everything about them and nothing about you, Joe.”
His gaze remains on you as you climb across the bed and straddle his lap. His hands are on your hips as yours go to play with the ends of his long hair. “I’m serious.”
He chuckles quietly. “So are they.”
You’re quick with the rebuttal, flicking his chest. “Well, they’re fucking idiots, and fuck you look like factoring in the opinions of the musty and unloved?”
The smile you hadn’t realized briefly disappeared is returned. “The what?”
“I thought it was maybe just the show we met at, but these folks stank. Are they all allergic to Dial and deodorant or something?” It’s both a rhetorical and serious question. As someone who’s always prided yourself on smelling good, the constant assault by the funk of these unwashed people will always be the biggest “con” of attending his shows. It’s why you mostly prefer to stay backstage these days. “Just nasty. Literally and figuratively.”
Once more, he shakes his head and lifts his hands to your back, tugging you closer. Your arms wrap around his neck as his smile dims and eyes narrow softly. “You’re really good at this, you know?”
Your brow lifts as you once again start to twirl curly locs around your fingers. “You’re gonna have to be more specific, big boy. I’m good at a lot of things.”
“That’s true.” He offers zero disagreement before supplying the answer. The delivery surprisingly soft for his deep voice. “At making me feel better.”
It takes you by surprise only for a second. Talking to people is something that’s always come natural and easy to you. Offering encouragement, however, in an effective and actually helpful way has never been as simple as some might think. Far too often people think that they’re being helpful only to be making things minimally to significantly worse. You’ve always done your best to avoid causing unintended harm, some of which has been helped greatly by your job. Kids always require a higher level of delicacy than adults.
But you’d also be lying to yourself if you tried to deny that there’s always been something so….natural about speaking with Joe. Easy. The conversation never grows stale and the flow never feels stagnant. Conversations with men in general have always been hit or miss for you. Far too often, whatever appeal existed is squashed the moment they open their mouth and say some stupid shit.
Not Joe.
He’s as well spoken as he is thoughtful. That subtle pause before he answers indication of actual pondering vs automatic verbal release. You’ve always appreciated that about him. That he actually thinks before he speaks. A rare characteristic to find with men. Especially fine ass men.
I wonder if that’s one of the things his wi—
Almost instantly, you shove it away. That thought that often tries to force its way to the surface, having found success a few times. But the more time you spend with Joe, the closer you two become, the easier it is to silence said thoughts.
And maybe, just maybe, you’ll be able to silence the voice entirely.
“Well….” You trail off in conjunction with your fingers trailing down his chest with one hand, the other reaching behind you. “There are several ways I know how to make you feel better.”
His gaze shifts and jaw clenches when you find him. Warm and pulsing in your palm, your thumb glides over the slit on his dickhead. Your saliva production quadruples at the anticipation of having him in your mouth and pussy once more. “You wanna clarify?”
You start to gently stroke him up and down, aiding in the revival of his erection that’s almost entirely returned.
Except, once again, you’re reminded that this man matches your energy in a way no one else has before. He eases his hand under the shirt, reaching and playing with your titties before returning down south to dance his fingers down your pelvis, stopping just when he’s about to spread your pussy lips apart.
“The thing that makes you feel just as good.”
His smug statement, however, draws your playful glare as you continue to work your hand around his thick length. “Don’t get cock—”
A sharp gasp escapes your mouth when his other hand moves to the back of your head, his fingers intertwined in your kinky coils you pulled up and out of the way the minute he told you to get on your knees before you two even made it to the shower. You bite down on your lip, feeling your pussy flutter and pulse when he roughly yanks you towards him. “Exactly.” Your eyes flutter shut as you start to writhe on top of him when his other hands continues to toy with your slick opening. “Stop talking and start sucking.”
The joy at his command is matched only by the glee you feel at having your desire fulfilled. He doesn’t need to tell you twice.
You pull away and tug his shirt off, tossing it on the floor before you twist your body to the position that preceded the brief respite. You scoot and slide your body back as much as you can, feeling the way he also begins to ease down on the bed so he’s on his back. Your eyes gleam with hunger and need as you lick your lips at the sight of his pretty ass dick. Fully erect, tip flushed, and pre-cum seeping out the slit.
A muffled groan is released as you lean over and travel the length of his cock with your nose, inhaling the scent of him. Of both of you. Your mixed, mingled juices. The tip of your tongue traces around his dickhead and up the base as you collect as much of the remnants from the previous round before getting right to it
“Fuck, that’s it,” he groans, and it’s music to your ears. Something about being able to bring a man to such a vulnerable place while simultaneous getting off from the pleasure you receive from giving head is always gon’ be just the thing that does it for you. “Keep going, baby.”
You moan, mouth full of his dick, releasing him to kiss and suck on his balls. “Hmm. Does that feel good, big boy? You like the way I suck this big dick?”
You’re rewarded with a slap and jiggle to your ass that makes you smile before you return his length back into your mouth, eyes shutting and watering when he hits the back of your throat as you bob your head up and down, deep throating him.
“I fucking love it.” You wiggle your ass back against him when he spreads your cheeks and his tongue swipes a single line up your ass crack, tip of said tongue circling your hole. It entices another moan following the feel of his fingers spreading your pussy lips as he returns the favor, burying his face in your cunt, inhaling and groaning. “God, you taste so fucking good.”
You smile, drool seeping out the corner of your mouth as you continue to work him with your mouth. Once more a respite is evoked only as he moves his big arms around your hips and ass, clearly getting and putting you in place. “Show me how good, daddy,” you moan, palms flat and gripping at his thighs as he pulls you back so that you’re smothering his face. Good. “Eat my pussy, and tell me how good it tastes. How much you love it.”
*It's me again...posting late. Sorry, I've been in a funk here lately. But we're about to wrap this one up!*
Catch up here: Part 1 Part 2 Part 3 Part 4 Part 5 Part 6 Part 7 Part 8 Part 9
The blinding, pale morning sun cresting over the lake was merciless. It flooded through the floor-to-ceiling glass of the house, offering no shadows to hide in.
When Tama woke, the right side of the bed was empty. For a fraction of a second, the old, violent panic flared in his chest, the instinct of someone who expected to wake up to a blade. But then, a scent drifted upstairs.
Coffee. And the soft sizzle of butter in a pan.
He pushed himself out of bed, his battered body aching in a dozen different places. He didn't reach for the gun on the nightstand. He pulled on a pair of clean sweatpants from the dresser and walked out of the bedroom barefoot, following the smell.
He stopped at the edge of the sunken living room.
Cameron was in the open kitchen. She had raided his go-bag and found one of his sweatshirt, the sleeves pushed up past her elbows, the hem hitting mid-thigh over her bare legs. She was standing at the sleek marble island, methodically moving eggs in a skillet, a steaming mug of black coffee resting on the counter beside her.
In the brutal, sterile architecture of the glass cage, she looked like a solitary pulse of warmth. The sheer, unapologetic domesticity of the scene was so profoundly jarring after the blood and chaos of the past forty-eight hours that it physically pinned Tama to the slate floorboards.
He stood there in silence, just watching her. Watching the way the harsh morning light caught the dark, messy knot of her hair. Watching the steady, capable movements of her hands.
Cameron felt his gaze before she heard him. She paused, the spatula resting on the edge of the pan, and turned her head.
When she saw him standing there, his chest bare, the sprawling tribal tattoos stark against his skin, his eyes heavy with sleep and an unspoken, devastating awe, her shoulders dropped a fraction of an inch. The tense line of her jaw softened into a grounded, private smile.
"There was half a pound of coffee in the freezer and some bacon that technically expires today," Cameron said, her voice a quiet, normal cadence that felt like a lifeline thrown into a stormy sea. "I figured we should eat before we figure out how to survive the end of the world."
Tama finally moved. He crossed the room, the space between them closing until he was standing right behind her. He didn't say a word. He just reached around her waist, his large hands settling flat against her stomach, pulling her back flush against his chest as he buried his face in the crook of her neck.
He let out a long, shuddering breath, breathing in the scent of her hair, coffee, and the quiet resilience of the woman who had kept him from drowning in the dark.
His voice, when it surfaced, was gruff but shaved thin with surprise. “Never had a woman cook for me before.” The words landed with the weight of an accidental confession, unsanded and earnest.
Cameron arched an eyebrow but didn’t release the spatula, her own surprise hidden behind a crooked, sideways smile. “Guess you kidnapped the right one,” she said, letting the joke hang in the air long enough to see if he’d catch it, then passing him the cup with a deliberate brush of her knuckles against his. The playfulness was a deflection, but the look in her eyes was sober, searching for fractures in his armor.
He blinked at the steam curling from the mug, then at her, as if recalibrating his understanding of the universe to allow for such an ordinary, unguarded gesture. She half expected him to retreat behind his usual deflections, the grunted one-liner, the sarcastic quip, but instead he just stood there, mug in hand, gaze fixed on her with an intensity that felt almost ceremonial.
She tried to keep her energy light, as if this were the kind of morning that happened to them all the time, as if neither of them had spent the previous night clutching at each other like castaways. “I make a mean eggs-and-bacon,” she said. “But if you ever want pancakes, you’re out of luck. My pancakes are a war crime.”
He snorted, the sound rusty, and set the mug down so he could lean against the kitchen island, his arms crossed on its surface. “This is good. The coffee. Not poisoned.” He took another cautious sip, eyes never leaving her face.
“Maybe I’m just softening you up,” she teased, spinning a strip of bacon in the skillet. “Poison’s too quick, anyway. Death by cholesterol is my preferred method.”
Something shifted in his posture, a microscopic loosening of the muscles at the nape of his neck. He watched her with the same kind of reverence he’d had for the coffee, as if the small, domestic rituals of cooking and banter were more dangerous than any weapon. His hands found her waist again, this time not in desperation but in something like gratitude, and he held her as if he might lose her to the next violent gust of wind off the lake.
Cameron kept the tone breezy. “Careful, if you get used to this you’ll be spoiled for all future kidnappings.” But the words felt hollow, brittle, and she wondered if he picked up on it.
He did. She could tell by the way his hands tightened around her, and by the raw, naked look he gave her, a look that said the joke wasn’t enough to cover the thing rising in him, the thing he couldn’t name. She wondered if he was about to say something reckless, something honest, and for a moment she was scared of what it would do to her.
She didn’t have to wait long.
He put the mug down and, with a gentleness she hadn’t believed him capable of, pressed his lips to the top of her head. “You’re not what I expected,” he murmured, his voice a sandpaper whisper. “You’re…better.”
Cameron felt his arms wrapped around her tighten, a trembling line running through his forearms. She turned off the stove and spun in his arms, studying the face of the man who, less than a few months ago, would have killed for the certainty of solitude. Now he looked at her like she was the sun crawling over the horizon for the first time.
So pressed her face to his chest, listening to the erratic thunder of his heart, and for the first time in years, let herself believe in the possibility of an ordinary morning. She tried to keep things light, but when she looked up, she saw the way his eyes shone, raw, unguarded, and she had the sudden, unshakeable sense that Tama’s entire universe had shifted by a single, irrevocable degree.
They sat together at the long, cold slab of the kitchen table, both of them turned toward the lake, which was already radiating heat and light from the cresting morning sun. The surface of the water was a strobe; restless, white-blue fragments that danced across Cameron’s face, refracting through her empty coffee mug and spilling onto Tama’s rough knuckles. He caught her gaze in the glass’s reflection and, for a minute, neither of them looked away.
Breakfast, such as it was, consisted of eggs weaponized by black pepper and the entire package of bacon, which they ate with their fingers. Sometimes she handed him a piece, and sometimes he stole a bite from her plate. The easy silence was so absolute it hummed over the soft ticking of the wall clock and the distant, lazy drone of a fishing boat. For a while, all Tama could think about was the taste of salt and grease on her lips.
He leaned back in the chair, his bare feet propped against the rung beneath hers, and her knees pressed up against his in an accidental triangle of warmth. He liked the way she managed to take up space, no apology or hesitation, just a steady, gravitational presence. If he closed his eyes, he could almost make himself believe this morning was an artifact salvaged from another life, a place before trauma or blood, before he learned to sleep with one hand on a weapon.
“I could stay here forever,” he said, so quietly it disappeared into the hum of the refrigerator.
Cameron didn’t answer at first. She picked at the last strip of bacon and considered him from under her brow, as if weighing whether he meant it. “So stay,” she said finally, her voice so matter-of-fact it made him smile in spite of himself.
He wanted her to know that he meant it, or something close to it, but the words stuck in his throat. He wasn’t a man accustomed to want, he’d built an entire life on not wanting, on relinquishing the illusion of permanence. Still, he looked at her, the wild possibility that someone like him could be allowed to want anything at all.
Tama’s heart sank. Part of him was relieved that she didn’t shy away from his weighty words, yet another part felt the sharp chill of reality nipping at the edges of their fleeting peace. “It’s not that easy, sweetheart,” he mumbled, but his voice caught slightly, punctuated by the weight of memories that clung to him like a shroud.
Her response was immediate; the lift of her brow, the slight tightening of her mouth as she studied him, weighing something intangible, just out of reach. He wondered if she could see through the center of him, the raw edges where uncertainty lingered. Or if she sensed the snare his life had become, one fashioned from guilt and choices he couldn’t take back.
“What’s stopping you?” she asked, her voice low but steady, a challenge wrapped in curiosity.
The question hung between them like a thread, and Tama felt it tighten with each breath. He glanced down at the table, fingers tracing the surface, the cold marble cool under his skin. Stopping? The concept felt foreign, almost laughable. His entire life had been about motion; building walls, fortifying the empire he’d inherited, punishing weakness, securing power. But it had left him hollow, and the very foundations felt unsteady. His empire rested on the weight of so many decisions that he couldn’t even start to sift through them. He felt the swell of expectation in Cameron’s gaze. It used to be easy to hide behind bravado, to fill the silence with threats and laughter, but now her question became a door he didn’t know how to open.
He took a deep breath, the scent of grease and coffee mingling with the warm air, and looked up to meet her steady gaze. Her brows were slightly furrowed, as if she were trying to untangle him with her eyes alone. “It’s not just about me,” he said, the gravel in his voice rough like the road he’d traveled to get here.
Her expression didn’t waver. She was still there, waiting. “Then what about us?” She leaned forward, the motion drawing his attention. The way her fingers danced on the table, unafraid to occupy the space between them, made something inside him ache.
He let out a rough chuckle, almost bitter. “Us? Name one person who gets to have a life in this world. It’s all blood and chains.”
“But that doesn’t mean it has to be.” There was an urgency in her voice, insistent yet soft.“You’ve survived everything else, haven’t you?” she replied, “That’s got to count for something.”
“You’ve only seen the surface of my life,” Tama confessed, his voice ironed flat, as if afraid a crease would betray him. He didn’t meet her eyes. Instead, he let his gaze drift to the window, the lake pulsing and glittering beyond the glass. The silence that followed wasn’t heavy or awkward, just a stillness so total it seemed almost conspiratorial, like the kitchen itself was holding its breath to see what he’d say next.
He licked his lips, fingers drumming once against the marble before going still. “What you see right now—this—” He gestured vaguely at the table, the cooling eggs, the sunlight limning her cheekbones. “Is not what came before. I wasn’t built for mornings, or… breakfast tables or… The rest of it, the parts I kept buried, that’s what built me.” There was no self-pity in it, just a careful mapping of shame, a surveyor’s dispassion.
Cameron leaned in, elbows braced and chin tipped forward, waiting for the rest. It was clear she had no intention of letting him sidestep the confession.
He hesitated, a faint tremor running up his jaw as if the words themselves had a physical cost. “I’ve done things that—” He stopped himself, jaw tensing. “Not just the jobs. Not just the shit you read about in the papers. I mean things I can’t explain away… things I’d give anything to forget.”
He looked down at his hands, the knuckles bruised but steady, and then up at her. “It’s not just the violence,” he said, quieter now. “It’s what comes after. The way it sits in your bones. You can survive anything if you promise yourself you won’t feel it, not really. But it doesn’t just go away.”
He closed his eyes, a shudder rippling across his features. “You think you want to know, but you don’t. You’ll regret it.”
Cameron could see the tension in his jaw as he spoke, the way his hands curled into fists on the table like they were trying to hold his emotions in place. She leaned closer, heart thudding against her ribs, aware of the weight of every word that hung between them. The air felt heavy, charged with the electricity of unspoken truths and choices made in the dark.
He swallowed hard, and she noticed how the muscle in his throat worked as he fought against whatever memory lurked beneath the surface. His eyes were so dark, so intense, as if he bore the weight of every ghost that shadowed him. “There are things I can never take back.”
Something deep in her twisted, a raw sympathy mixing with the primal urge to reach out, to bridge the chasm yawning wide between them. “You said that it ended with you… how are you going to do that if you can’t walk away?”
Tama brushed a hand through his hair, feeling the tension cling to the back of his neck like a vice. The question hung in the air, heavy and exacting, demanding answers he wasn’t ready to give. He could almost hear the echoes of regret crashing around him, dark waves threatening to pull him under.
“Walk away?” he murmured, barely above a whisper, the words tasting bitter on his tongue. His gaze swept back to the swirling lake outside, where the sunlight danced mockingly on the surface, as if reminding him that beauty could exist even amidst chaos. “No one walks away.” Each inflection was heavy with the weight of unspoken truths, a shroud that wrapped tighter around him with every admission.
Cameron’s eyes searched his, her brow furrowed in a way that made it feel like she could peer into the very core of him, past the walls and facades he had built to safeguard his heart. Her fingers fidgeted, an unconscious flicker of anxiety, and it took everything in him not to reach for her again, to pull her back into that space of warmth, where the world beyond them faded into insignificance.
“There is a council of elders that I report to. Everything is voted on, every policy, every retribution, every big move.” He said it flat and low, like the words were lifeless stones that he could lay between them, a barrier and a confession at once. “Democracy, at least in theory. The old men, smoking at the long table, pretending it isn’t all rigged from the beginning.” He rolled the heel of his palm over the cold marble, feeling the friction, the drag. “It’s not just about muscle or tradition. There’s a theater to it, we have to keep up the appearance of order so the chaos doesn’t swallow us whole.”
He paused, and for a moment she thought he might stop there. But the air had thickened, weighted by the inevitability of his disclosure. “After the vote comes the execution. Not just the—” he caught himself, as if realizing his own word choice, but pushed ahead, “—not just the violence. Enforcement. The follow-through is what matters.” He looked at her, something both pleading and resigned in his face. “That’s my job. I carry out the sentences. I’m the one who makes sure there’s no daylight between what they say and what happens.”
He shrugged, but there was a tremor in it. “You see what I’m saying? Even in the places where it looks like I could walk away, I’m still the one holding the fuse.”
She reached across the table, fingers grazing the back of his hand, trying to bridge the distance, to anchor him. “You have a choice, Tama. You don’t have to go back to that.”
He caught her gaze again, the storm in his eyes battling against something softer, something that felt almost fragile between them. “Do you think I enjoy it?” His voice was low, layered with an intensity she hadn’t encountered before. “The things I do… they’re necessary in my world. I move money, drugs, weapons…I run a fucking strip club for God’s sake.”
Tama swallowed against the lump rising in his throat. How was he supposed to explain this to her? He dared to hope, just for a moment, that perhaps he didn’t need to shoulder everything alone. But the demons whispered behind his eyes, shadows of a life lived in violence. The memories flickered unbidden: faces of those he’d hurt, those who had been left alive or dead at his hand. The line between right and wrong had blurred long ago; now it felt like a stain too deep to wash away.
“Every choice has consequences,” he said finally, his voice stark against the quiet of the room. “Sending my son away will have consequences. Being with you will have consequences.”
He clenched his jaw, feeling the familiar thrum of tension pooling low in his belly. How could she not see what was at stake? The weight of the empire he bore hung heavily on his shoulders, its history woven intricately into his very being. No backing out. No choice.
He reached across the table, his rough, warm hand covering hers, “We need to get back to town soon."
– – –
The heavy, wrought-iron gates of the estate felt less like a sanctuary and more like a closing trap as the G-Wagon rolled through them.
For nearly the entire drive down the mountain, Cameron and Tama had existed in a heavy, charged silence. Whatever fragile peace they had found was gone, left behind the moment the city skyline had bled into view. By the time the tires came to a halt on the pristine stone of the driveway, the man sitting beside her wasn't the one she shared breakfast with
The Warlord was back. And he looked like a man standing on the edge of a jagged cliff.
When Tama pushed the heavy mahogany doors open, the atmosphere in the grand foyer instantly shifted. The sprawling estate was crawling with armed enforcers. Loa was standing near the entrance to the war room, reviewing a tablet, one hand resting casually on the tactical vest strapped over his chest.
As soon as the doors yawned open and Tama stepped in, the estate’s interior rearranged itself around him like a living organism sensing the return of its absent heart. Loa’s head snapped up, the movement quick and feline, his gaze slicing through the ambient tension as he took stock of the new arrivals. The man’s eyes, so dark they almost seemed to drink in light, fixed on Tama first, then flicked to Cameron, assessing her role and proximity as if recalibrating a threat axis. It was a habit born of endless vigilance, but on this day it wore a sharpened edge.
“You’ve been off the grid,” Loa stated, his voice a slow, predatory drawl that carried easily through the soaring chamber. Each syllable landed like a drop of oil on water, slick and impossible to ignore. There was no reverence in Loa’s address, only a transactional kind of respect, the type that acknowledged power without ever yielding to it. He set the tablet down with ceremonial care, a deliberate display for the satellite cluster of bodyguards and lieutenants orbiting the war room threshold.
Loa didn’t wait for Tama’s reply. He closed the distance, footsteps measured and unhurried, as if to signal that all business here would proceed on his timetable, not Tama’s. “The Italians hit two of our shipping hubs while you were gone…doing whatever it is you were doing.” he continued, voice pitched low enough to carry weight but high enough to let the accusation float above plausible deniability. Not an outright challenge, but not not a challenge either. He let it hang, a poisonous little fruit, and Tama could feel the eyes of every man in the room tracking the exchange, looking for signs of weakness or fracture.
Cameron, for her part, felt the tremor of the moment, the way the air seemed to solidify around the two men. She hovered just behind Tama’s shoulder, unwilling to insert herself but unable to look away, as if bearing witness might somehow shape the outcome. The tension here was fundamentally different than at the lake house. There, intimacy had been a risky, private wager; here, it was a commodity, weaponized or denied according to the rules of engagement.
Loa’s words were followed by an expectant silence, the kind that had its own gravitational pull. Even the armed guards, hands resting on the polymer grips of their sidearms, seemed to lean in for resolution. Tama let the pause stretch, his own silence a move in the game, and his body language; loose, almost uncaring, was itself an assertion of dominance. His face betrayed nothing, the scars along his jawline catching the harsh foyer light and throwing into sharp relief the mask he wore for the world.
Loa, undeterred, pressed on. “The elders are restless, Tama,” he said, and this time the words were edged with something sharper than concern. “They want a council tonight. They say there’s talk of a formal vote. Some of them are saying—“ He paused, eyes narrowing to flint, “—that if you can’t keep the peace, they’ll find someone who can.”
There it was. The shot across the bow.
A ripple ran through the room. Cameron’s pulse spiked, and she caught herself wondering, absurdly, whether the other men could hear it. The loyalists who had flanked Tama for years watched him with a mixture of expectation and fear. Would he lash out, would he capitulate, would he simply vaporize the tension with a joke? None of them could predict it, and that unpredictability was its own kind of terror.
Tama didn’t offer an explanation, and he didn’t lower his guard. He marched straight into the center of the room, forcing Loa and the surrounding enforcers to pivot toward him.
"The estate is bleeding," Tama announced, his voice a low, gravelly boom that commanded absolute silence. "We have a leak. Until I find out how the Italians knew the coordinates for Kalina's convoy, this house is on absolute lockdown. No one leaves. No one communicates with the outside."
Loa’s jaw tightened, a flash of irritation crossing his features. "We are already locked down. The perimeter is tight."
"Not tight enough," Tama snapped, his eyes burning with a dark, paranoid intensity. He looked like a King who was finally cracking under the weight of his collapsing empire. He turned his massive frame, pointing a heavy, uncompromising finger at the marble floor. "They got to Kalina. They almost got to Kiko. I will not give them another fucking target."
Tama turned sharply, his gaze locking onto Cameron. She stood perfectly still near the doorway, her hands tucked into the pockets of her oversized coat, her face a mask of careful neutrality.
"Pack your things," Tama ordered her, his voice devoid of the warmth he had shown her just hours before. It was cold, transactional, and brutally loud.
Cameron blinked, her heart giving a violent thud. "What?"
"You're too exposed here," Tama continued, pacing a tight circle, acting every bit the part of a man driven mad by grief and paranoia. "The Italians know you saved my son. They know you're in this house. I am not waiting for them to breach the gates."
Loa stepped forward, his brow furrowing. "Where are you sending her? If the house isn't safe, the streets are a death wish."
"She isn't staying on the goddamn streets," Tama countered, his eyes snapping back to his brother. He stepped into Loa's space, his sheer size and dominance forcing Loa to tilt his chin up. "I've secured the Penthouse on the top floor of Bankhead Towers. It’s a fortress. Private elevators, electronic lockdown protocols, and my men holding the floor. She stays there until the threat is eradicated."
A heavy silence fell over the foyer. Cameron kept her eyes trained on the floor, her chest tight. To anyone watching, she looked like a pawn being abruptly swept off the board.
"Moving her requires a convoy," Loa argued, his tone carefully reasonable, though his eyes were sharp with calculation. "A convoy is a target, Tama. You're risking a lot of men for a nurse."
"I am moving her tonight. At 0200 hours," Tama stated with absolute, terrifying finality. He didn't lower his voice. He made sure the order carried across the echo of the marble, washing over the heavily armed men standing guard. "Three armored SUVs. Route 4, down the industrial corridor to avoid the highway cameras. No stops."
Tama turned his back on his brother, dismissing the argument entirely. He looked at Cameron one last time, his expression completely closed off, a masterclass in emotional detachment.
"Be ready by midnight," he told her coldly. "You're done playing house."
Without waiting for a response Tama turned and stalked down the hallway toward the war room, leaving Cameron standing in the center of the lions' den, completely surrounded.
Cameron’s heart hammered against her ribs as she stood in the foyer with Tama later that night, but her nurse’s training; the ability to compartmentalize and operate in a crisis locked her focus entirely on him.
"I'm not a piece of furniture you can just put in storage, Tama," Cameron fired back, her voice echoing sharply off the polished marble. She took a step toward him, closing the distance, refusing to shrink under the weight of the heavily armed room.
Tama stopped his retreat and pivoted slowly. His massive frame seemed to absorb the ambient light. When he looked at her, the light she had seen in his eyes that morning was completely extinguished, replaced by a cold, dead stare.
"You don’t belong here," Tama rumbled, his voice dropping into a dangerous, warning register that made two of the nearby enforcers shift uncomfortably. "And worse, you’re a distraction. I don't have the time or the manpower to keep you alive while my world is burning."
"A distraction?" Cameron let out a harsh, disbelieving laugh. She channeled every ounce of frustration she’d felt since being dragged into his underground world, weaponizing it for the audience. "I stitched you back together. I kept your son from bleeding out! You think locking me in a tower makes any of this disappear?"
"It removes you from my board," Tama stated brutally. He stepped into her space, looming over her, a captor putting a defiant captive back in her place. "You think because you survived a few months in this house, you understand how this works? You don't.”
Loa watched the exchange with rapt, silent attention. His dark eyes flicked between his brother's furious, paranoid posture and Cameron’s flushed, defiant face. He was watching the Warlord's armor crack, watching Tama forcibly sever his own anchor to stay afloat.
"So that’s it," Cameron spat, her voice shaking with perfectly calibrated, righteous anger. She looked up at him, her eyes glistening with unshed tears of betrayal. "You drag me out of my life, keep me prisoner, and the second you feel like you're losing control, you just ship me off with an armed guard and call it a day. What was this weekend, Tama? Just deciding what to do with your collateral?"
Tama’s face hardened into granite. “This is what survival looks like.” His hands remained at his sides, fingers curling into fists rather than reaching for her. “All that talk about wanting to go back to the real world? There it is. Get ready, or my men will escort you out by whatever means necessary.”
Cameron stared at him for a long, agonizing beat. The silence in the foyer was absolute, "You're a coward," she whispered. The insult was soft, but in the echoing hall, it carried like a gunshot.
Tama’s jaw clenched so hard a muscle feathered in his cheek. He looked like he wanted to shatter something, or perhaps drag her into a room and lock the door. Instead, he simply turned his back on her. "0200," he repeated to the room, walking away. "Talla, coordinate the transport detail with the West Wing guard. I want Route 4 swept and locked down."
As Tama’s heavy footsteps echoed away, the foyer became a tomb. Cameron hovered for a moment where he’d left her, arms cinched so tight around herself she could feel her own pulse in the crook of each elbow. Even the light seemed to withdraw in his absence, draining the room of its prior indifference. The guards on either side of the great staircase had begun moving again, with the unconcerned professionalism of men who spent their lives as furniture with guns. She felt all of them watching her, even as their faces remained studiously blank, as if her own humiliation was a kind of entertainment, a break from routine.
She pressed back into the shadow of the staircase, trying to collect herself. Her mind was a confusion of anger and embarrassment, edged now with a merciless clarity. Tama had not only ended things, he’d made her an exhibit. A lesson for the room. This is what happens to anyone who gets too close. She wanted to scream, to shatter the vases or hurl a lamp into the glass doors, but she was nothing here. She couldn’t even make herself cry; the tears burned in her sinuses but refused to give him, or anyone else, the satisfaction.
She thought about the clinic, about the life she’d tried to salvage with Tama. She remembered the way he’d looked at her, as if she alone could anchor him in the storm. That was gone now. All that remained was the protocol and the paranoia, and the feeling that loyalty in this house was just another kind of transaction.
Cameron shut her eyes and counted to ten, waiting for the shaking in her legs to subside. When she opened them, she saw Loa standing across the foyer, regarding her with an expression that was not quite pity and not quite hunger. He stepped forward, unhurried, and met her at the edge of the light.
Loa watched Cameron collect herself in the darkened fringe of the foyer before stepping forward, his movements so measured that she barely registered his approach until he was within arm’s reach. The guards resumed their silent watch, but in this pocket of shadow it was as if they were alone. He waited until her breathing returned to something like normal before breaking the silence.
“Most people don’t last a week in this house,” Loa said, the words slipping from him in a voice pitched so low it was meant for her ears alone. He didn’t say it with the sneer she expected, but with a species of tired candor, like a man offering a cigarette to someone shell-shocked in a trench. He leaned a shoulder against the banister, arms crossed, and regarded her with an expression that hovered somewhere between admiration and regret.
Cameron braced herself for another volley of threats or a reminder of her status as a liability. Instead, Loa’s eyes went to the distant ceiling, as if searching for some invisible point of reference. “I’ve seen every type. They all come through here thinking they can handle it. None of them made it past four days. Not one. They break, or Tama breaks them.” He studied her face, letting the history of the house sink in, the legacy of its revolving door of ghosts who tried and failed to outlast the man at its center.
Loa’s lips twitched, the ghost of dark humor passing over his face. “You made it three months, if anyone’s paying attention. Which is probably why he hates you so much tonight. You’re a survivor and survivors are liabilities.” He uncrossed his arms, hands open and empty, inviting her to recognize a fellow prisoner, even if he was the jailer’s blood.
He gestured toward the vast drawing room, deserted and eerily pristine, its stained-glass windows reduced to dead colors by the night. “Come on,” he said, the tone a strange mixture of command and camaraderie. “You look like you could use a drink before you go.”
Cameron felt the sharp chill of the drink all the way down her throat, though it did nothing to blunt the confusion or the ache blooming in her chest. She set the glass back on the tray with more force than necessary, and for a moment, she could almost convince herself she was back at the bar after work, exchanging stories with the other night-shift nurses, instead of cloistered in a gangster’s mausoleum. But then she remembered Tama’s voice; flat, implacable, the same voice he’d used when telling her about casualties, except this time she was the one being written off.
She wanted to ask Loa if this was how it always happened, if Tama made people feel like they belonged, only to exile them when they started to believe it, but she couldn’t bring herself to say it. Not out loud. She lifted the glass again, stalling for composure, and finally managed, “I don’t understand, I thought he and I—” but her voice caught before she could finish.
Loa watched her, his face unreadable, and waited until the silence became unbearable. “You thought you were in love?” he said softly, taking the words right from her mouth. “Tama doesn’t do love.”
Loa shrugged, the slight movement tightening the tension in his shoulders, as if the shifts in their conversation were all too familiar to him. “You think you’re special?” He held her gaze, a flicker of something like sympathy in his eyes. “He may have kept you around longer than the others, but that just means he trusts you to do your job.”
“Then what is all of this?” she said, waving a hand toward nothing and everything. The flickering lights, the sterile coldness, the overwhelming weight of silence felt absurd. It felt like the whole house held its breath, waiting for damage to spill over.
Loa shrugged, the gesture fluid, almost inviting. “It’s what he knows how to do. Control, power, chaos. Love is messy; it exposes weaknesses. You think you can survive here with a heart? Doesn’t work that way.”
Tama’s voice cracked through the air like a whip. “We’re leaving now. Cameron—car. Loa—stay put and keep your eyes on the grounds.”
The clock in the estate’s cavernous underground garage read 0145 hours. The air was thick with the smell of high-octane exhaust, cold concrete, and the electric tension of a syndicate bracing for an impact.
Three heavily armored SUVs idled in the center lane, their massive engines rumbling like caged beasts.
Tama marched Cameron across the damp concrete, his hand wrapped around her wrist in a vice grip. To the enforcers loading weapons into the vehicles Tama was the picture of a paranoid Warlord forcefully exiling his biggest liability.
Tama’s grip was cold and implacable as he steered Cameron through the last stretch of the garage, toward the line of black SUVs. Her shoes slipped and skidded on the thin glaze of oil and water on the concrete, and in that split second, she felt a surge of humiliation; there was no dignity in how she was being handled, no room for words or negotiations, only the brute, inevitable machinery of extraction.
Tama didn’t look at her once. He opened the back passenger door with a knifelike, mechanical gesture, then all but shoved her into the shadowed interior, letting her collide with the butter-soft leather. For a half-second, she thought he’d get in after her, that there would be a final argument or at least a parting shot, but Tama only slammed the door shut and stepped back. The locks engaged with a synchronized chorus of gunmetal, the sound echoing in her chest, more final than any sentence he could have pronounced.
The windows were tinted so dark that the white glare of the overhead lights came through only as a faint, bruised glow. Cameron pressed her fingers to the glass, half-expecting to see Tama standing outside, but his broad silhouette had already receded into the shadow of the garage. She sat in a world of silence, interrupted only by the ragged thrum of her own pulse and the clockwork efficiency of the men outside. From her vantage point, she saw only fragments: the glint of a rifle barrel, the slice of a black suit moving past, the quick, nervous hands of a bodyguard double-checking his holster. Somewhere in the front, a radio crackled, transmitting the kind of staccato code that always meant imminent violence.
“Route 4,” Tama’s voice ricocheted off the garage walls and through the car’s soundproofing, as if the vehicle itself was complicit in his orders. She could hear him as clearly as if he were whispering in her ear. “No deviations. If the Italians so much as look at the convoy, you burn them to the ground.”
“Yes, Boss,” came the reply, clipped and rigid. Cameron made out the voice as belonging to Talla, whose eyes hadn’t met hers since the day she arrived. She wondered if he was afraid of her, or if he simply saw her as another grenade with the pin already pulled.
The other cars were filling with shadows, another nurse in scrubs, two of Tama’s inside legal counsel, and a his trusted men. Cameron recognized the protocol: flood the field with decoys, overload the threat matrix, make it impossible for anyone to know which target was the real one. She wondered if she should feel grateful for being deemed important enough to warrant this degree of attention, but all she felt was the sick, hollow lurch of movement as the convoy shifted into gear.
The main garage doors stuttered, then began to rise, the rubber seals on the bottom groaning in protest against the morning’s cold. As the first SUV rolled forward, Cameron felt the car’s suspension tense beneath her like an animal testing its leash. The driver, a blank-faced young man with the hollowed-out affect of a sociopath, checked the rearview mirror once, twice, and then merged with the line of vehicles. The convoy moved as a single organism, coordinated, silent, every step anticipated and rehearsed.
She watched Tama watch them go. He stood under the awning, head slightly bowed, hands folded behind his back, the posture of a man already writing off the losses, refusing to look at her directly through the windshield. Even at this remove, Cameron could see the way his jaw ticked, the way his shoulders refused to slump. She realized, with a kind of gruesome clarity, that he would mourn her only as a failed asset. Not as a lover, not as a confessor in the haunted hours, but as a piece of the game that had to be sacrificed for the play to go on.
The SUVs punched out into the night, their headlights drilling through the rain. The sound of the engines built and layered until it became a single, bone-deep vibration. For a moment, Cameron closed her eyes and let the darkness absorb her. She opened them just in time to see the iron gates swing shut behind them. The estate; her prison, her hospital, her home, receded in the mirrors until it was nothing but a shadow, indistinct and unreachable.
Three floors up, the estate was suffocatingly quiet.
Loa stood by the floor-to-ceiling windows of his private suite, a glass of amber whiskey in his hand. He watched the rain lash against the glass, his dark eyes tracking the headlights of the three armored SUVs as they snaked down the winding driveway and breached the main gates.
They were turning east. Heading straight for Route 4.
A slow, chilling smile touched the corner of Loa’s mouth. His brother, the great King of the Tongan Syndicate, had finally let his heart blind his tactical brilliance. Tama was so desperate to protect Cameron that he had effectively tied her to a post and painted a target on her back.
Loa turned away from the window and set his whiskey on the heavy mahogany desk. He walked to the bookshelf, his fingers tracing the spine of a leather-bound encyclopedia before he pulled it forward. Behind it sat a small, biometric wall safe.
He pressed his thumb to the scanner. The safe hissed open, revealing a single, untraceable burner phone.
He picked it up, the harsh white light of the screen illuminating the sharp, calculated lines of his face. He didn't make a call. Voices could be recorded; voices could be recognized. He simply opened the encrypted messaging app.
He stared at the screen for a fraction of a second. This was the point of no return. Once he hit send, the Italians would slaughter the entire convoy, the nurse would be eliminated, and Tama would be left broken, fractured, and unfit to rule. The elders would look to the only brother left with a clear head. The throne would finally be his.
Loa’s thumb tapped the screen.
Target is moving. Three armored vehicles. Route 4. Center car. Leave nothing but ash.
The message switched from Sent to Read.
Loa powered the burner phone down, snapped it in half with a sharp crack, and tossed the pieces into the roaring fireplace. He watched the plastic melt and curl in the flames.
SYNOPSIS𑁤 there's an old saying that if you knew then what you know now, you'd have done things differently. even if just a little. karesse shaw is living proof of that. then again, maybe not.
WARNINGS𑁤 smut. dirty talk. unprotected sex. multiple positions. infidelity. age gap (15 yrs). toxic/unhealthy dynamics. codependency. unhealthy relationship dynamics to the max. unhealthy attachment. toxicity through and through. topics pertaining to grief, illness, pregnancy complications, and death. morally gray characters.
WORDS𑁤 fifteen thousand and some change (15k+)
PAIRING𑁤 roman reigns x younger!blackoc
CREDIT𑁤 photos from pinterest and instagram. title graphic and mdni banner by me. gold divider by @/pixopix / melo gif by @/princedevitt and roman gif by @/fabxpunk
AUTHOR’SNOTE𑁤 this is part one of two. what started out as a simple oneshot turned into this massive, lore heavy storyline that was initially inspired by a reel but took on a life of its own. i wrote/am writing it in non-chronological order, so i did my best to piece things together as cohesively as possible. also, this is a hot fucking mess in every sense of the word.
The overwhelming sound of applause, consisting of cheering and clapping, is nothing more than cacophony. Fodder for the rage that soars throughout her body. Born as irritation the minute she heard the haunting opening sound of a theme he hasn't used since the night before his historic title reign came to what many considered an epic conclusion and one of the best main events of all time.
But it gradually reverted back to aggravation when he walked onto the makeshift stage, shiny, gold belt over his shoulder. He'd clearly showered, flyaways of his usually neat, slick bun indicative of how he most likely took a blow dryer to dry what he could and was allowing the Vegas humidity to do the rest.
She doesn't remember it being this warm last year.
Last year….
The same year she said would be the last year.
That she swore up and down during one of their many…many heated arguments over the phone—the ones that she ensured took place on the privacy of her backyard as she paced the length of the pool deck—that it'd be a cold day in hell before she attended one of his shows.
Mania be damned.
And she didn't necessarily lie.
She's not there for him.
She's there for him.
Carmelo.
Her boyfriend.
Well…
And just like that, a fresh wave of intense anger is revived when she recalls what invited the emotion that's been dominant and consistent when it comes to that irritating ass man.
He's fucking ridiculous.
But she should have known. She should have known that there was no way in hell for last night to end the way that it did and he not have something up his sleeve. He was far too calm upon her departure for him to not be scheming and planning. He probably already had Paul on the fucking phone before she even hit the elevator.
April 18th, 2026 — WrestleMania 42 - Night One
The feel of his big, calloused hand palming and squeezing her ass preceded the loud echo of that same hand coming down on her ass, the slap echoing throughout the suite but ultimately lost among the pre-existing, louder dominant noises.
The headboard brutally beating into the pillows they'd learned a long time ago absorbed the only set of noises that could be controlled and maintained. Everything else was always something beyond the realm of control, including the way she cried out and cursed at the stinging aftermath of his slap.
Karesse detested the way that his deep voice managed to overpower everything else, that she could hear that dark chuckle even in the midst of his heavy balls slapping repeatedly against her pussy that both throbbed and squeezed around his thick ass dick. In all the years that'd passed, every time still felt like the first time. That unforgiving stretch and impossible depth that always made her initially dub over, hand—when not restricted—reaching for her stomach.
It was unreal how deep he always felt.
How deep he was.
"I don't know why you're trying to be so quiet." She kept her eyes and mouth shut, more than certain that if she bit down on her lip any harder, she'd draw blood. The same way he drew back almost entirely before ramming back into her. Karesse's nails scraped against the sheets, searching for a sort of anchor that was ruined at least three positions ago. Damp, soaked, somewhere in between and beyond, whatever the case, they were no use.
"Acting like you ain't in tears over how good this dick feels," he continued, once more palming the globe of her ass that bounced off his dick with fervent passion and desire. Naturally, she needn't put in much effort, but as always, it was a high she couldn't not chase. "How it always feels." Couldn't not heed to the aching in her lower back that he kept pushing down on as he rammed his cock into her. Couldn't not eagerly throw her ass back to meet him thrust for thrust. "How your Tribal Chief always makes you feel."
It was a road that offered one end and one end only.
"S—shut up," she managed through heavy pants, the weight of her breasts slapping against her chest just another source of deafening sounds that couldn't be avoided.
One of many things that could never be avoided with the man behind her.
But Karesse was suddenly pushed down on the mattress, the absence of Roman's cock in her weeping, needy, pulsing pussy a deprivation that had her instantly groaning through closed lips. Frustration briefly spiked to an all time high when he flipped her over on the mattress like she weighed nothing, and despite that being far from the case, especially since the birth of their daughter, it tracked.
She licked her lips and soaked in the sight of his big, hulking body over hers, the groaning of the mattress underneath the weight of his knee lost in the way her eyes could only focus on his dick. Thick, erect, hung between his equally thick tree trunk legs, the tip flushed and glistening with their conjoined juices.
Roman smirked down at her before reaching for her ankles and pushing back her legs before his gaze refocused to her spread legs and throbbing cunt. His eyes darkened.
"That's a pretty ass pussy right there." Karesse watched with a coiling stomach as he brought his thumb to his mouth, pink tongue swiping over the pad before it disappeared between her legs. Her head lolled back at the slightest but stirring press of it against her swollen clit. "All puffy and creaming from taking daddy's big dick."
Karesse started to trail her hand down her slick body to tend to her throbbing, sensitive pearl only to feel a shift.
Roman's hands locked behind the back of her thigh, his baritone voice dropping an octave as she heard the bed creak once more and felt his minty breath between her legs. "And she taste just as good as she looks."
Her clit was exchanged for the back of Roman's head. Her fingers nestled and tangled into his silky, dark curls as he the sound of him slurping on her pussy for what had to have been the third time tonight had her writhing and moaning on the bed.
"Stop all that damn moving," he groaned, ceasing only momentarily to issue his one and only warning. Countless, prior experiences taught her well that he was a one and done. After that, he'd just use his strength to lock her down against that mattress while he ate her out until she was practically sobbing and begging him to stop. That she couldn't take it anymore.
It never made a difference.
From the moment their sexual relationship reached the level to where he didn't have to factor in her inexperience, that was all she wrote.
He always put her through the mattress and flipped, bended, contorted her in ways she didn't even realize were ways.
But it was when he finally decided that she'd had enough, Karesse on the brink of pulling her hair out by the roots, that the atmosphere shifted when they changed positions once more. For the final time. And she knew this well and with all the confidence when he kissed his way up her body until he reached her mouth. His hands hooking behind her thighs that autonomously locked around his waist the same way her wrists crossed behind his neck as her fingers tangled in his hair while they continued to make out. His pace shifted to accompany this more intimate positioning of their connected bodies.
Karesse panted and moaned into his mouth as he transitioned from that filthy mouth of his that would make Only Fans highest paid worker blush and stammer to the proclamations that always caused warmth to bloom in her chest.
In her heart.
"….always you…."
"….fucking hate being away from you…."
"…..I love you…."
It was the last one—often repeated more than once—that she always reciprocated. She didn't know how not to. Not in these singular moments where everything outside of what she felt in the deepest part of her soul didn't exist. Where, even if a facade, everything seemed and felt right.
She drowned in it willingly.
But it was a temporary sort of quicksand, as when they both reached their fill, and he peeled himself off and away from her, Karesse remained in bed as the reality that existed outside of the room gradually returned to the front and center.
Where it should have never left.
"We're going on the road with him."
Subtle yellow lighting reflected off the defined line in the middle of his back, shadows in between the bulging muscles that were flexed from the mid-movement of him pulling his shirt back on. She tried to distract herself by counting the amount of bruises—varying shapes, sizes, and hues—along with tiny scrapes and cuts. Some from the fight.
Some from her nails clawing down that same back not even ten minutes ago as he thrust desperately and sloppily inside of her before exploding, ropes of warm, white, hot cum still seeping from her swollen, puffy vagina.
But the moment he turned around, her distraction was deprived and irritation revived. The scowl on his face already letting her know exactly where this was about to go.
Where it always went.
"What?"
Karesse rolled her eyes and leaned back against the headboard. Her hands against her chest keeping the thin fitted sheet covering the bulk of her body that was still slick with sweat that had her edges and kitchen all but completely reverted back to its kinky kurly state.
"You heard me," she repeated. "I said we're going on the road with him."
Roman kept his gaze steady on her, finally pulling his shirt over his head before following up with a newfound but understand irritable tone. "What the fuck does that mean?"
"Roman," she sighed. "You know exactly what it means." Because it's exactly what she'd done with him at some point. "Melo wants us to join him for a little bit so we could spend time together, and I said yes."
Forever watchful and observant, Karesse kept her focus on him while her free hand hidden under the soft sheets tapped at the mattress that still felt damp under her fingertips either from the mess they'd made of the perfectly clean, pristine sheets prior to her arrival to his room.
It's what allowed her to see that familiar flash gleam in his eyes. "And why the fuck would you say that?"
She closed her eyes. "Roman—"
"You're not going."
Karesse's eyes snapped open just as quickly as they clamped shut. Her bottom lip dipped open just enough for a tiny breath to escape. "Excuse me?"
"You heard me." He walked across the room, snatching his pants off the velvet, cream colored chaise lounge they started on as he reclined back and tugged her on top of him, impaling her on his dick that she role with a disgusting amount of fervor and desire before they transitioned to the bed. He snatched his pants and turned around, face morphed into that irksome ass scowl that made her want to punch him right in his beautiful ass face. "You're not taking my daughter away."
It wasn't that Karesse was expecting Roman to leap for joy at this news. No, she knew the moment she finally gave Melo an answer as they sat on the sofa together in their shared suite following her getting Bri down for bed that it would be a whole fucking thing. She just wasn't expecting to already be over all of it before the fireworks could even fully begin.
"Stop being dramatic. You'll still see her." She contemplated sharing that she'd already asked for Melo to send her over the set of dates he knew and had so she could start figuring out flights back home to accommodate that. Because that's all she's ever done it, seems. Accommodate him.
"When?" He pressed, stepping into and sliding up his joggers. "When you feel like it?"
"And how is that any different from how things are now?"
Her sharp rebuttal was met with silence followed by his eyes diverting to the adjacent wall. "That's fucking bullshit, and you know it." She leaned back in bed, arms pressed to her side to keep the sheet intact, knowing full and well what exposure of her nude body would do to him. To the both of them. He flicked his gaze back to her. "I'm with her almost every day of the week." Another gleam she opted to ignore as well as the dip in his volume. "I'm with you."
Karesse couldn't necessarily deny him that. From day one of Briella Mae's arrival into the world, Roman has always done any and everything he could and can for their daughter. That included heading right over to her/their house right after dropping off his youngest two children with her at school. He essentially took care of Brie while Karesse worked, because while many hailed working from home being the easiest thing ever, holding a supervisor level position in a mostly male dominated industry meant that she had to ensure to cross every 'T' and dot every 'I.'
Especially as a black woman.
Roman kept their baby girl busy while she worked her nine to five that was often filled with small to large gaps in the day that allowed her to spend time with them, and when Brie was down for naps, him.
Sometimes, it all felt so….domestic.
And for a second, it worked. That warmth in her chest that bloomed and was borderline overwhelming every time he looked at her like that, stroked her soft skin as they laid in bed together, limbs as entangled as their souls. Made her feel what no one else ever had.
But that was then, and this is now.
Nothing has ever felt or been more different. A realization that made her counter that much easy to issue.
"Will you be this summer?" She pressed. "Will you be with her or me most of the week when your kids with her are home for the break?"
"Karesse—"
"When you wine and dine them all over the world cosplaying as this perfect husband and dad while sneaking FaceTime calls with me and Bri while wifey is being pampered at the spa and the kids are laughing and having the time of their life in the background?"
Karesse hated everything about this conversation, but nothing filled her with more rage and hostility than discussing that bitch. Hate has always felt like such a strong word to use towards another human being. At least, that's how she's always felt. And perhaps it was the—now that she's older and can look back—ridiculous, childish back and forth between the two of them, that set them down the path they ended up on.
Nasty texts that once resulted in Karesse throwing her phone across the room when she received a 30 second clip of the two of them having sex.
Roman and his wife.
It eventually followed up with Karesse hitting an Uno Reverse card as she pulled up her iCloud and sent over an almost five minute, first person POV video of Roman eating her out.
But again, all of that would prove nothing more than child's play compared to the ultimate, culminating event that, even a little over a year over, Karesse still can't bring herself to fully think about, let alone discuss.
All she knows is that she hates that bitch with every fiber of her being, Briella Mae will never be around her alone, and that her hatred has no expiration date.
Period.
Rendered silent once more by a truth he couldn't deny because she, because they, lived it, have lived it several times over, Roman resorted to what he always did when backed into a corner.
He projected.
"Isn't that what you'll be doing if you go gallivanting around the country with him like some fucking groupie?" He sneered. "Dragging my daughter—"
"Oh, you're so full of shit." Any little amount of effort and consideration she'd set aside for the conversation is DOA and was DOA the moment he started off by telling he what she wasn't going to do with her child. She tried. Truly. But Roman could be so fucking impossible at times.
He could also be hypocritical, and in that moment, he was both.
His presence was suddenly the cause of her discomfort and prompted her to kick the blankets off as she also started to journey across the suite to redress.
"Karesse—"
"This conversation is over with."
As she slid her dress over her body, completely disregarding her soaked panties she planned to just toss in the trash, she could feel his heavy footsteps behind her.
"The fuck it is," he huffed.
She spun around on her heel, looking up and glaring while attempting to adjust the top of the sleeveless dress that kept rolling down over her boobs. "I have nothing to say to you right now, Roman."
Nothing nice, anyway. Sliding on her heels, it was only when she was upright that she felt his hand on her arm, her body yanked into something hard and warm and far too inviting for everything that just occurred over the past five minutes.
"Rom—"
"Karesse."
She kept her eyes closed, refusing to meet the gaze she already knew would have her melting in his embrace instead of how tempted to shove on his chest with little to not results. His hold, in many ways, was relentless.
"Hear me out." Resilience somehow remain undeterred as she kept her eyes shut despite the feel of his hand on the small of her back, the other gliding through her hair that hung, partially straight, partially curled over her shoulders and fanned her back. "She starts preschool in the fall."
"I know that."
"Then we need to be getting her ready for that," he countered, voice significantly softer, in that way it always relegated to when he realized she was shutting down on him. When he realized that, once more, he allowed his emotions to get the best of him and had subsequently put his foot in his mouth. "She doesn't need to be dragged from city to city every week—"
"But it was okay when we did it with you?" Her counter was accompanied by the way she forced her eyes to open just in time as his jaw ticked, the smart remark she knew he wanted to say shoved aside for something less antagonizing but just as irritating.
"That was different," he said, voice even. "There was a reason."
"And there's a reason now, Roman. The only difference is that you're not that reason anymore, and that's something you can't seem to accept."
Because when the roles were reversed, their daughter almost thirteen months, Karesse had done the exact same thing she was proposing. Joined Roman on the road for a couple months. Went with him from city to city with their young daughter in tow, and while perhaps the disastrous fallout from that whole debacle fueled part of his vehement objection to her plan, it wasn't enough to get her to change her mind.
The minute Karesse accepted her boyfriend's offer, the deal was done.
She didn't tell Roman to ask for his permission. She told him so he'd know in the next couple of weeks, she and baby girl would no longer be an easy 15 minute drive from his big, fancy mansion in the gated community where police roamed on the regular and kids could play freely and safely in the street without a care in the world.
That reminder, however, along with the way his hand started to inch its way down her body allowed Karesse to remember where she was and who stood before her.
With what was objectively unnecessary force, she jerked out of his embrace and forced herself to ignore the brief pang of hurt that flashed across his face.
If she had a dime for every time the role was reversed.
"I have to go," she said, refusing to entertain what should have never been revisited in the first place. She should have never replied to his text. "Besides, your family is waiting for you."
Yeah…..his failure to follow after her or even try to prevent her from leaving the room—wouldn't have been the first time—should have tuned her into the fact that he was up to something.
She just could have never anticipated it was this.
The time it takes for her to actually get to him is infuriating for a variety of reasons, most of which stem from the fact that what should be enjoyable, one of the happiest days of her life, has been soiled by the man who's been nothing but a thorn in her side since the day they met almost five years ago.
May 22nd, 2021 — Playmates
"He's back."
Karesse lifted her eyes from the wad of cash in hand that she just finished counting and met the vibrant emerald eyes of her coworker.
Kiana, KiKi, was easily one of the most beautiful women Karesse had ever laid eyes on. A flawless, deep complexion. Sharp, perfect features with striking eyes and curves that made every man and woman who laid eyes on her swoon almost immediately. Her no-nonsense approach to the business and life in general was something Karesse looked up to the moment she met the woman almost a year prior.
Almost a decade older but looking the same age as Karesse, there'd always been an almost maternal dynamic between them what with her always looking out for the, in many ways, naive twenty year-old.
Hence her heads up.
Karesse turned in her seat as Kiki slid in between her chair and the other unoccupied seat. They were in the midst of switching sets, hence why more bodies ambling and moving about vs sitting like she was. Karesse was on the tail end of her shift while a handful of the many other women were just getting started, hence the overwhelming aroma of perfume, fluids, and far too much hairspray.
"What?"
Kiki chuckled. "You heard me." She focused on the successful application of the first eyelash before turning to the young girl. "Well? You better go make that money, girl."
Money. The one thing Karesse never seemed to have enough of. Even what with her taking up her secret job as a "midnight ballerina" in conjunction with her part time job at Starbucks. The amount of income brought in covered her tuition, sure, and it most definitely made life significantly easier than where she started—utterly broke and on the brink of having to drop out of school after fucking up as badly as she did—but after all her other expenses, she barely broke even.
The past month, however, had been different.
Largely due to the man who was, as he had been for the past few weeks, waiting for her. He wasn't the first man who dropped a stack on her for private lap dances, but they were far, few, and in between. Not to mention the visits were always sprinkled out.
This man, however, had quickly become a regular as had the generous tip he always left. It'd helped a lot. Karesse would never deny that, but it didn't stop all the questions that rushed though her brain every time he showed up.
Some of which were answered when Kiki clued her into the fact that her…admirer of sorts wasn't some average Joe. He was famous. A professional wrestler, which explained his disgustingly perfect build. Valleys of solid, hard muscle that always flexed under her gentle touch as she danced atop him. A man like him was built for some sort of contact sport.
He was the top billed athlete in his sport, at that.
And paid very…very well according to several sites.
He was also married.
A stunning wife and four beautiful kids. That part didn't necessary surprise her, however, as she'd quickly learned through her time at the club that wedding bands were often nothing more than props for men to maintain and feign the image of wholesome, family men.
Roman Reigns was no different.
And yet he was.
Because unlike many of the men she was forced to entertain with balding, uneven hairlines, and arrogance that didn't match their 5'6 height they always rounded up to 5'10, Roman carried himself with regality and swagger that tracked. He was exactly who he thought he was, and that was….intriguing to Karesse.
Hence the way something in her stomach twisted every time he showed up—as he had, consistently, every Saturday night for almost the past month.
So while she continued to be surprised every time she exited the dressing room and maneuvered her way through the dimly lit and congested club, bodies mushed together, and met his waiting expression, she couldn't deny there was always a level of relief that accompanied his appearance.
If he intended for his visits to become a regular thing, she could get used to that.
Could get used to him.
A sentiment that was all but confirmed later that evening when what'd become routine quickly progressed into something else.
Her eyes lifted to his, her arms around his neck as she straddled his lap. The thin strings of her barely there top undone less than a minute into the song, hence the way her breast were free, exposed, and pushed against his chest. But it was the way his hands glided up her back, another roughly grasping at her ass, fiddling with the gold bottoms her ass all but swallowed, that made her take pause.
She struggled to keep her smile at bay, fully allured by not only his hypnotic gaze, but the scent of his cologne. Most men who requested lap dances carried with them a subtle odor she forced herself to ignore, as she recognized it was often a minimal level of perspiration fueled by the difficulty that came with composing themselves to keep the erections at bay.
Roman, from the night they met, always smelled good. Even with the bulge she felt pressing against her through her spread thighs. "You're not supposed to touch."
A cardinal rule she laid out the first time she entered the room with gold lining edging and dark green velvet furniture, accompanied by a pole and small platform to allow for greater flexibility and performance.
It was a rule he'd always respected.
Up until now.
He chuckled, and it made her body shiver. His voice was so damn deep. "Then push me away."
She had two options in that moment. Do exactly as he said. Or do exactly what she wanted.
She went with the latter.
Karesse grabbed his face and smashed her lips against his, instantly moaning and melting when his own hands pulled her close. She'd only kissed a couple of guys in her life at that point, but less than ten seconds into said kiss, it easily jumped to the top of 'best kiss' ever list.
She might have initiated it, but he quickly took control, tongue over her bottom lip and in her mouth, as his hands continued to explore her body while she writhed on top of him. Her moan, however, must have triggered something for him. He interrupted said kiss, her minty breath fanning his face, lips eager to feel his back on hers as he eyed her quizzically.
"How old are you?"
Karesse chuckled and shook her head, kissing around his mouth. "Now's a fine time to ask."
But what she considered a potential poor attempt at weird ass foreplay, he fully meant.
His mouth set into a frown. "I'm serious."
And she knew it. Could tell by the shift in his voice and stalled venturing of those big ass hands touching her all over, leaving invisible trails of growing heat and desire in its wake.
She sat back on his lap and smirked. Her hands found his and guided them to her chest. Unlike many of the girls she worked with, she didn't have massive ass tits—homegrown or manufactured. A moderate C cup, what she lacked up top was more than made up by the ass, thighs, and hips she used to wine, shake, and jiggle all over that stage to keep her bank account in the green and life on the right track.
Still, titties were titties, and the way he'd always eyed hers with hunger indicated they were big enough for him, and that was good enough for her.
She locked her palms on top of his, catching the subtle twitch of his thumb over her puckered, dark nipples. "How old do you think I am?"
But despite that minute sign of cracking, his resolve remained. "How….old."
Karesse, to her credit, maintained the image of indifference as she forced a sigh. "Twenty-five." Except her answer did nothing to chip away at the way he continued to eye her. She chuckled, praying her growing apprehension didn't betray her. "What? You wanna see my ID?" She shook her head. "Come on, you really think they'd let me work here if I wasn't grown?"
Her second question followed up with the way she leaned over and kissed the shell of his ear seemed to do the trick. His hands lifted to her waist and then the back of her hair when he yanked her head back and smashed his lips back onto hers.
She smiled into said kiss.
Yes. Yes, they would.
Because she was, in fact, not that grown. Sure, her ID reflected a DOB that matched what she'd just told him, but what twenty year-old didn't have a fake ID?
They clocked it the day she attempted to apply, desperate and with no other options, but they also saw what had always been the case for her.
That while her face leaned on the youthful side, she was thick in all of the right places, thus age restrictions being optional and inconsequential.
So while it wasn't a lie reserved specifically for him, as it was a reserved, default lie, it was still the beginning of what she could have never imagined to be a life changing journey.
June 5th, 2021
Karesse flashed a small smile and placed the five dollar bill in the open palm of the delivery driver who offered a distracted grin, the white ear buds in his ear that peaked through shaggy brown hair clearly more interesting than a customer's pleasantries.
Accepting the boxes, the heat from which traveled to her fingertips and made her bite down on her lip with a tiny hiss, Karesse bumped the door closed with her hip. She started to shift the boxes close to her chest, allowing the smaller one on top to slide close to her chest, as she went to turn the deadbolt lock. However, the weight of the boxes were relieved and allowed her both hands to lock the door back.
Roman stood before her, the boxes in hand that she could barely hold with two hands looking like two small to-go plates in his big hands and against his even bigger, broader chest. The private rooms they'd spent time in before transitioning outside of the club always seemed too small for someone like him, and despite her apartment being twice the size of the room, it still felt too small for him.
Karesse was unsure if there was a place that could accommodate someone like Roman Reigns.
"Thank you," she murmured. Turning to finish locking the door, she spun on the heel of her sock covered feet to see him looking down at the boxes curiously. "What?"
His gaze lifted to her, and he chuckled. "Think you got enough?"
Karesse rolled her eyes and shrugged, pushing her silky hair behind her ear. "You look like you like to eat."
She quickly realized that it was the wrong choice of words when something flashed in his gaze as he raked his eyes over her. "You ain't wrong."
Clearing her throat and doing her best to play off how flustered she felt, which was stupid as fuck considering he'd seen and groped every inch of her, Karesse walked into the kitchen, Roman in tow. Hitting the switch, she shuffled over to the fridge and bit down on her bottom lip seeing limited options.
"Ummm, is—"
"Water is fine," he answered. She turned to see he'd placed the boxes down on the counter and was standing with his arms crossed. It was only then she realized he'd removed his hoodie that didn't make much sense for one to wear in June, especially what with the brutal Floridian heat.
But she figured it was more so to help conceal his identity, especially with the way he kept the hoodie over his head as they climbed the two flight of steps it took to reach her apartment.
"Cool," she agreed. Karesse pulled out two water bottles from the pack of 24 that sat on the floor where linoleum met the carpeted area that stretched throughout the rest of the two bedroom apartment, sans the single, shared bathroom.
Plates prepared and drinks in hand, it wasn't until they migrated to the living room and the TV played some random replay of an old SVU episode that Karesse felt the strange tension that'd never been felt prior to this—their first time interacting outside of work—gradually melt.
"I didn't think you could even eat this stuff," she muttered, picking at her crust, eating it piece by piece, dipping it in the wing sauce that was just about gone. "Let alone this much."
He chuckled. "I probably shouldn't."
"Yeah, I heard old people have to be mindful of their diet and shit. Especially active old people." The small smile played on her lip as he looked at her with irritation that only made her grin widen. She waited until she was done chewing, reaching across to grab a napkin to dab at the corner of her mouth. "What?"
"Shut up." She did so only for the sake of the water bottle she'd twisted the cap off to down the remnants of food that remained despite thorough chewing. She was always so damn hungry after work. People don't realize what energy is expended from dancing. The first few weeks of work, she most definitely tapped out and passed out on her bed the minute she got home. "Where's your roommate?"
She took pause for a second but remembered her mentioning said roommate when he indicated initial reservation regarding them going back to her place. Not that they really had much of a choice.
They damn sure couldn't go to his place. For…obvious reasons.
"Home," she answered. "She always goes back home for a month at the start of summer. I think she'll be back sometime next week." Or perhaps after that. Amanda had always been…not the easiest person to catch up with. On top of holding some type of position within her sorority, being a student athlete, and working a part time job meant very little downtime during the school year. So as far back as when they first met, assigned as roommates during freshman year, summer, ironically, has always been the stretch of the year where most communication occurs through texts, phone calls, and FaceTime.
When Amanda was in town though, they always made sure to link up. Even if just for the night.
If only she knew who Karesse was "linking up" with right now.
"Ya'll close?"
Karesse looked over at him, watching as he started to fold over his used napkin atop the now empty, barely any crumbs outside of the stains of the wings plate that he reached over to place on the coffee table.
How his plate was twice the size of hers in terms of serving size and yet she was still trying to finish up her food was beyond her.
"Yeah, she's really cool." Karesse shrugged. "Wouldn't have agreed to move in with her off-campus if she wasn't."
"She still in school, too?"
Perhaps that random acting class she took freshman year paid off, cause the ease in which she skillfully hid the panic that arose at his question, was nothing short of a masterclass level performance. The trepidation that quickly brewed at the sight of his dark, thick eyebrows scrunching together from confusion mixed with curiosity. Spiked at the thought of him pushing for more information that would eventually expose the lie regarding her age.
Karesse offered a small nod. "Never too late to go back, right?"
He chuckled, leaning back against the sofa, her focus briefly shifting to his inked arms. His tattoos were obviously a nod to his Pacific Islander heritage—Samoan, if she recalled the Wikipedia page right—but she wondered if they held specific meaning beyond just cultural. "You say that shit like you're old."
"You would know."
The way he rolled his eyes made her smile return. "What's your name?" As if already knowing what her counter would be, he offered the clarification unrequited. "Your real name."
Once more, this man who she still knew so little yet so much about rendered her silent. One of the first rules Kiki drilled into her when she first started at the club was the importance of anonymity. Men, people, whomever, sought places like Playmates because it was a sanctuary for just that—invisibility. The ability to shed organic, birth assigned identification in exchange for whoever one wanted to be. Dancer or customer.
It was why they all went by stage names.
Velvet was hers. Red Velvet, initially, but she'd quickly ditched the adjective when she learned it was a reference to her complexion.
Karesse was many things, but a colorist was and would never be one of them.
She swallowed, reaching to place her empty plate atop his. "You're not very good with asking questions in a timely manner, are you?"
Because asking her age after she was practically naked, on his lap, lips swollen from their heated makeout session was one thing, but inquiring about her government after agreeing to return back to her place was…something.
Maybe stranger danger was a thing only stressed to little girls growing up. Not boys.
Leaning back into the arm of the sofa, she pulled her legs up to her chest as he shrugged indifferently. "What are you gonna do? Kick my shins?"
Karesse quickly stretched one leg just enough to, in fact, kick him. His leg that felt solid and hard against the ball of her foot. He caught her ankle, keeping her steady so that the heel of her foot sat on his big thigh. Licking her lips, she watched and felt the chills shoot up her body when he traced small circles on the span of skin where the top of her foot met her leg. "I'm serious."
She could tell.
Again, she considered deflecting. Perhaps even coming up with another alias, but guilt ate at her. He hadn't, to her knowledge, been dishonest with her regarding his own identity. Granted, unlike herself, he didn't really have the luxury to do so. While she had her own social media footprint, it was nothing compared to his own.
She already knew so much about him, while he knew so little about her.
It felt….wrong.
But beyond that…she didn't want to lie to him.
Not again.
And certainly not about this.
He'd met Velvet, but maybe, maybe it would be nice if he could meet and get to know Karesse.
"Karesse." She answered after a good two minutes of silence, something stirring in her stomach at the way the corner of his mouth rose to break the smallest smile. "My name is Karesse."
What makes it infinitely worse, however, is that Karesse can't entirely place the blame on him. Naturally, as is the case with most lies, he eventually found out the truth.
She was forced to disclose her dishonesty.
That when they met, while he was only three days away from his 36th birthday, she was only eight days away from her own.
Her 21st birthday.
He didn't talk to her for a week after that, and Karesse truly believed her short-lived, whirlwind romance with her rich, older, sexy ass man was but a thing of the past. And she couldn't blame him. Granted, her age being the deal-breaker and not his marital status was definitely….something.
Turns out neither were large enough issues for him to block and delete her number, because when anger settled, he was back, and it was like….like nothing happened. Not enough to ruin what they'd started to build.
And they continued to build. Because pretty soon, visits to the club and him coming to see her transitioned into her going to see him. Paid flights with first class seating into whatever city he was in for the night. Domestic and abroad. It started as a sort of….companionship, perhaps. Friendship? Maybe both, as it didn't seem to take very long for openness beyond the surface level topics to be unlocked on both sides.
July 24th, 2021
"Is there a reason you got these so damn long?"
Karesse fingers paused mid unraveling. She'd just gotten through with detangling a stubborn section of her hair locked into the kanekalon with the rat tail end of her comb. A success she was proud of until someone just had to fucking ruin it.
Again.
She looked over her shoulder, arms at her side keeping the blanket close to her chest unlike his that was bare, like the rest of his surprisingly warm body she was nestled into. In between his thick legs as he worked to help her take out the braids she should have taken out at least a week ago but kept pushing off.
So his surprise, unannounced visit provided the perfect opportunity to cut down a usually two to three hour job in half. At least, that would be the case if not for his lack of co-operation.
"Ya know, if you worked half as much as you complained, we'd almost be done by now." She huffed, reaching for another braid, using that same metal end to start to undo from the bottom of the plait, hoping and praying it would unravel naturally and without any unnecessary effort.
He sucked his teeth, the feel of him wading through her remaining braids, as if searching for the shortest one, only made her roll her eyes. "We would have been done if you didn't have so many of them." Men. "And next time can you pick a color that isn't the exact fucking same as your hair? It all looks the same."
The speed in which Karesse angled her body to ensure he could feel the intensity of her glare defied physics. "Because your blind ass refuses to put your damn glasses on."
Glasses that sat on the nightstand beside her bed that she'd picked up for him during a late night Walmart trip several visits prior where he'd cursed lowly at forgetting his glasses. Something that took her by surprise at first given she'd never really seen him use them. But she remembered. Remembered and picked up a pair, having asked that same day of discovery what strength he used.
He cut his eyes, and Karesse had to take a moment to take pause. Despite it going on almost two months since they met, the nature, depth, and connection between them—the two least expected individuals—was something she still hadn't fully processed. She knew that she cared for him something serious though. In ways she'd never felt about anyone else. Ever. "Smartass. How are my glasses going to help me distinguish black from black?"
Even if his old ass was irritating the living shit out of her.
His disrespectful ass introduction and irritating ass, hypothetical question quickly snatched her back to focus on the task at hand.
"Shut up," she muttered and turned back around. Peripheral vision granted her a glimpse of him reaching for the scissors off the dresser making her turn her head once more. "And you better not cut my hair."
"Stop moving so damn much, and maybe I won't."
Another smile cracked on her face despite the way she elbowed him in his hard ass stomach only for him to grab her arm, his thumb caressing the skin above her elbow. A gentle, subtle touch that evoked a sigh and the way her eyes fluttered as reclined back into him.
His mouth against her temple as she bit down on her bottom lip and managed a low, murmured, "you're an asshole."
He made a sound while she placed her hands over his muscled forearm that settled across her stomach under the sheets. "So I've been told."
They fell into another round of natural, normal silence in a way that most would find partially uncomfortable, if just a tad bit. But that was never the case with them, maybe towards the beginning of their relationship, but at that point, too much had been shared and experienced for them to be anything but comfortable.
Beyond that.
"I wanna ask you something."
Karesse stilled and suddenly wished that some distance existed between them so she didn't have to feign the bulb of tension that bloomed at his unexpected statement. She eventually found it in her to turn her head and look up at him. "Well, you gonna ask or did you forget already?" He rolled his eyes as she upped the ante, grateful for the small bit of successful deflection. "It happens with old people."
"Keep talking, Res." This time, she was the one to roll her eyes as she looked forward and reached for a braid to unravel. His mouth dipped to her ear as she bit back a smile. "The day I finally show you what this old man can do…" Her stomach coiled and throat grew tight at his husky, deep ass voice and the subtle graze of his finger on the underside of her breast. "You won't be saying or doing shit after the fact."
Her lips parted ever so slightly, and her thighs clamped together. Roman chuckled, clearly aware of her not so subtle reaction to his….promise? Either way, it was followed up with a return to his opening statement. "Why do you talk to yourself whenever we're in the car?"
"What?" She turned to look at him, the scowl on her face making him chuckle as he reached to push a few renegade braids from near her eye. "I—I don't talk to myself."
Even as she refuted it aloud, Karesse couldn't ignore the pang in her chest at both his question and the reality before her. It was bound to happen sooner or later. Try as hard as she did to be subtle about it around people who didn't already know, with how much time they'd spent together over the past two months, it was only a matter of time.
A part of her was surprised it'd taken him this long to ask.
He eyed her skeptically as she resisted the urge to push that pesky strand of his loose curls out of his face. For a man, he had some beautiful ass hair, and the fact that his routine was all but three steps and done made her sick to her stomach. Men. "Well you certainly ain't talking to me, and I know you're not talking to the driver so—" His eyes narrowed, voice and expression the blend of playful and serious. "You hear voices or some shit?"
"You're so aggravating." She sucked her teeth and elbowed him once more. "No, I don't hear voices." Karesse wasn't entirely sure, but she could have sworn that was a thing with one of his colleagues. Randy something? She couldn't be too sure. Her attendance at his shows were predominately focused on him and the Bloodline. Everyone else was background noise. "Like I said, I'm not talking to myself. Not…not really."
"Not really?"
She glared and focused on the TV mounted above her dresser. A gift from him to replace her old one that was fine but for the crack in the bottom left corner that caused a triangle of black and kaleidoscope colors that continued to spread. Something that didn't really bother her, but it bothered him. Thus his replacement. Just one of many things throughout her room that were courtesy of the man she was pressed up against. "I'm—I'm singing. Or…saying lyrics or—" Karesse blew out a breath and bit the inside of her cheek. "I told you that my parents died when I was younger, but I guess…I guess it was more that they were killed."
She could feel the way he tensed behind her, nonverbal indication of immediate regret, almost. "Karesse—"
"Car accident. Drunk driver. Obviously, I survived, but they…"
"Karesse—"
Another attempt to stop what'd already been started, but despite the typical somatic symptoms that accompanied discussion of what was without a doubt the hardest thing she'd ever been through, there was little desire to stop. No part of her that vied for a way out. She didn't love the discussion, but it wasn't unbearable, either. And if she had to take a guess, it was largely due to the man she was speaking to.
"After that, being in a car was….it was hard for me." Horrific. It was horrific. Screaming, crying, and vomiting at just the thought of it that few in her life, at the time, honored in a way she needed. "I was forced to do therapy for a while, and the therapist suggested a couple of things to help, and they did, I guess. But the thing that really helped, that stuck with me, for whatever reason, was when she told me to find my happy place and return to it whenever I was in a car."
The faintest smile grew on her face as memories of horror were flooded with recollections of ardent joy.
"We always had music playing in my house, and my mom—she loved Whitney. Played I Wanna Dance With Somebody so much that to this day, I hate that damn song. But—" For some reason, his quiet chuckle was calming. As was the way he rubbed small circles against her stomach. "I Believe in You and Me was her absolute favorite. My dad used to come up behind her as she played it while fixing dinner or folding clothes, and he'd hold her, and they just—they were so happy, and it made me happy. One of my favorite memories of them. With them."
She swallowed, gradually returning to a reality that was a lot less bleak than usual returns following her disclosing of a painful, traumatic past. "So anytime I'm in a car, I repeat the lyrics to myself and go to my happy place to keep myself from panicking." Karesse angled her head once more to gaze up at him, managing a small smirk. "Make sense? Or do you need a better explanation. I know old men can—"
He silenced her with a kiss that made her want to lean into him and never sit up, never do anything to rip her from that moment. Especially with the way he cupped her face, gentle and tender, her eyes fluttering just enough to make out the way his eyes focused on her and reflected something strong and unspoken.
But it was felt.
From that day forward, not a car ride with him has occurred without I Believe In You and Me already playing before either he or their driver can even open the door for her. And when it's the two or three of them, his right hand is either always on her thigh or holding hers.
Always.
Karesse often wonders who fell first. One some level, it felt like that award went to her. Looking back, she certainly started to fall before he did.
She must have.
One doesn't let a married man fifteen years their senior take their virginity in the presidential suite at the Ritz Carlton without some level of feelings existing.
Strong feelings.
Feelings that suddenly mean nothing and everything when he finally walks into the room. Showered once more, as he always does after the many different events that take place post Mania. Especially after a win.
But it's the casual appearance, the usual one that greeted her when he'd meet her in his suite after SmackDown and what said casual attire means that has her with her guard all the way up. Even more than before.
This bastard….
She marches over to him as he turns to ensure the door behind him is locked. "What the fuck do you think you're doing?"
He turns around, eyeing her up and down before chuckling and sauntering past like he didn't even hear her.
Karesse closes her eyes and reminds herself that she promised both herself and her baby girl that she'd never lay a hand on Roman like that again. It was wrong.
But he's fucking pushing it.
He's pushing her.
He always does.
She's right behind him, following his big frame as he plops down on the sofa. "Don't walk away when I'm talking to you."
Roman sits with his legs spread, phone in hand, focus on the screen that reflects in his eyes and highlights the faint bruise above his cheek.
She wishes Punk had hit his ass harder.
"So talk."
Her tongue hits the roof of her mouth like her anger meter ticks to the farthest right of the spectrum.
"What do you mean we'll see your ass all summer?" She jumps straight to it, knowing that time is not on her side for a variety of reasons. Too many possibilities grow exponentially with each minute she remains with the man before her. The longer she stays, the higher the chances she'll end up doing something she'll regret.
Always does.
"You're part time now."
He continues to tap away on his phone with one hand, the other resting on the top of the sofa with the way his arm is stretched out. Fuck, his big ass almost takes up on the whole damn sofa. "Not anymore."
"What do you mean not anymore?"
Roman finally decides to grace her with his attention, lifting his eyes from his phone only to look at her like she just asked him what color the sky is.
"I won the title."
Unfortunately. "I know."
Irritation mars his handsome face. For a second, she takes note of the bags under his eyes. He looks exhausted. Probably is.
Matches, especially longer ones like the master class he put on with Punk, always take more out of him that he likes to admit. If he's ever even admitted it to anyone. Because the way he disclosed it, disclosed his condition, almost quietly, during one of their many nights together as she sat on her knees behind him, hands working to smooth out the tight knots and kinks in his back and shoulders, it felt like an admission.
One meant for her ears and her ears only.
"So I have to defend it," he continues. "I have to kick off this title reign."
"You don't have to be full time to do that, Roman," she reminds. "Hell, you were part time for almost the entire last year of your last title reign. Have been part time for years now—"
"Yeah, well not anymore."
His interruption is sharp, to the point, and accompanied with that dip in his already deep ass voice. The subtle change in intonation that always prefaces him saying something to piss her the fuck off.
Too bad she beats him to it.
"Full time husband and father seemed to have gotten a lot shorter than I remember." She crosses her arms over her chest, fully aware of the anger that flashes in his eyes. She's also fully uncaring. "Or maybe just pretending to be all that is getting old."
His jaw ticks, and he looks away, running his hand through his beard she can tell he recently touched up, the gray hairs she used to lay in bed and count as he slept completely blended in. Black on black. He turns to look back at her. "Watch your mouth, Karesse."
She scoffs. "You really gon' sit there and tell me to watch my mouth?" Pointing to herself, she steps closer as his focus remains on her. "After the shit you said tonight? On live fucking TV for the whole world to hear?"
Several things were said this evening, but Karesse can still feel the way her entire body stilled, the sound of music playing, people laughing, completely drowned out. How Melo tensed next to her. Stark contrasts to the way Brie clung to her with one arm, the other extended as she pointed to the TV mounted in the corner of the private room.
"Hi, daddy!" She waved happily, as if Roman, who sat among the commentators wearing that smug expression, freshly obtained title sitting in front of him, could see his youngest child's happy greeting.
It briefly revived the bile in the back of her throat as she sat in the private box and watched him celebrate his win with them.
The gentle, heartfelt way he hugged and dapped his two sons. Kissed his other two daughters on the top of their head.
Kissed her.
Karesse was forced to blink away tears as she worked to distract her daughter from witnessing the sight that broke her mother's heart. That would one day break her own heart when childlike naivety could no longer shield her sweet baby girl from the devastating truth of her parental dynamics.
When she no long accepted why daddy could only spend the night sometimes and could only call her on the phone or FaceTime her on the tablet when bedtime rolled around and she just wanted to cuddle with him.
Truths Karesse, for her own mental sake, refuses to allow herself to think too much about. She will have to. Do more than just think. Will have to confront. But they're not there yet nor is she even close to working though all of the other present….shit that is is her life.
She would like to blame the crowd who kick-started it all. Carried over what's been heavily pushed online to something catapulted to the surface for the devil himself to address.
"Melo." Roman spoke in that smug ass tone that made her want to punch him in his face. Again. Eyes focused on the camera, it felt more like he was focused on her. Like he was speaking directly to her versus the man who stood beside her, his own retained title over his shoulder, other secured around her body, hand on her hip. "See, you seem still a little fresh in this business." A beat. "You did a big thing tonight, but I done that many times."
Everything after that was completely inaudible and stomped under the intensity of rage that she had to quell for the sake of the people around her, primarily the man beside her and the child in her arms.
Because to and for most, perhaps even Carmelo, it was nothing more than a reference to him retaining his US Championship title in his three way match against Sami and Trick. His first WrestleMania match.
But Karesse knew better.
She knows Roman, and she knows that his snide ass remark was nothing more than a cheap shot and dig to the fact that Carmelo, being the damn near perfect man that he is, of course utilized what should have been his moment to make it theirs. To jump out of the ring, greet her where she sat with close family and friends, on both their ends, and to reach for the small, red velvet box that his dad handed him with a huge smile on his face.
He proposed.
He proposed, and she said yes for over 50,000 attendees and God knows how many viewers watching through various streams to see.
Including Roman.
So no, while a clever cover, what with feeding into the massive push for a storyline and match between her now fiancé and ex/baby daddy/whatever the fuck he is, Karesse knew better.
She knows better.
Roman's hungry gaze rakes over her frame, the way she's bent over unintentionally allotting him an up close view of her cleavage, breast shoved and pushed together through her thin tank top.
"Did I lie?"
His simple, smartass comment, however, prevents her from focusing too much on the stare that creates a strange sense of discomfort and something she refuses to feed.
It reminds her why she's here.
"I am not a fucking toy, Roman!" Her volumes jumps at least two levels, but it seemingly has little to no effect on the man who's never looked more unbothered. "I'm not a punchline you can throw out there when you wanna prove who has the bigger fucking dick."
"Well, we both know the answer to that."
"I'm serious!" Karesse snaps. "This isn't a fucking game. This is my life. My life that you keep injecting yourself into when you have no business."
He sits forward, phone discarded to the side of him, matching both her energy and intensity. "You wanna drag my daughter across the country so you can be with your little boyfriend and expect me to be okay with it?"
"He's not my boyfriend." Karesse counters calmly. "He's my fiancé."
For whatever reason, there's an almost bitter aftertaste following that final word leaving her mouth. What should be some level of pride and excitement is nothing more than a bullet to lodge into Roman's hubris and to tackle his fragile ego.
It's….it's wrong. The sudden discomfort that stems from the ring on her finger. A placement that also feels….wrong.
But that's another issue for another day.
Regardless of confusing feelings, the objective is accomplished in the way he looks away, muttering darkly, "yeah, well, we'll see about that."
She scoffs. "You're unbelievable." A hypocrite. A fucking hypocrite is what he is, regardless of the fact that black band he's never seen without when the cameras are rolling is nowhere to be seen right now. It never is when he's with her. "I don't even understand what your goal is in this. You're on Raw now. Melo is on SmackDown. We won't even be in the same cities."
The closest they'll come to crossing paths is PLE's, and even then, the likelihood of Roman working any outside of the major ones that Melo most likely won't be on the card for is slim to none. So—
"Was." His interruption to her mental pondering draws her focus back to him. "He was on SmackDown."
Karesse grows silent, partially waiting for a follow-up that isn't even necessary. Not when she takes a step back to think about what he just said.
What it means.
Her shoulders drop. "What did you do?"
Roman, however, resumes his unbothered stance, leaning back against the sofa once more. "You heard the people. They want a feud between me and—"
"What did you do?" She interrupts, voice weighed down with grit and growing anger.
Head tilted, the small smile on his face has never made her feel so disgusted. "He's on Raw, effective as of next week."
"No. No." She shakes her head, unsure who she's attempting to convince at this point. Herself or the man who can never seem to just leave her alone. "He—he just retained tonight. The US Championship is a SmackDown title. He can't—"
"People drop titles all the time, Karesse." He shrugs. "Sometimes even at the first show after their big win."
She can only stare at him. Can only look with absolute disgust how fucking unbothered he is by some of the grimiest shit she's heard and seen in some time.
"What the fuck, Roman?" Karesse can barely contain her anger. Can feel her body trembling from the extent of rage she feels in this moment. Her palm burns with desire to connect with his stupid, smug ass face. "You're mad at and wanna punish me so you take it out on him? Fuck with his career?" It's disgusting. "What kind of weak ass shit is that?"
He keeps his vow low in tandem with his morality. "I told you to watch your mouth."
"Fuck you!" She snaps, completely uncaring of if her voice travels through what she would think are thick ass walls. Who gives a fuck. The whole floor could hear as far as she's concerned. "You're a pussy ass nigga for that!"
"I'm not gonna tell you again—"
"I don't care, Roman!" Her icy tone slices though his supposed indifference as he looks away and brushes the tip of his nose with his thumb. "That's what you don't seem to understand. I don't care about what pisses you off or upsets you." Karesse scoffs and shakes her head. "Why should I when you don't give a damn about me and my feelings?"
At that, he turns to look at her once more. To say she can't see the shift, the lessening caustic tone of his voice replaced with something familiar that she refuses to acknowledge. "You know that's not true."
"Oh?" Another scoff as she crosses her arms once more, fully prepared to throw at him every fact that, try as he might, he'll never be able to dispel. The truth can never be negated. "I tell you that I want to spend time on the road with my partner, my fiancé, and the first chance you get to fuck with that, to fuck with me—"
"No. You didn't say you wanted to go. You said he wanted you to go—"
"What difference—"
"The difference is that whenever you bring him up, it's what he wants. What he thinks. It's never what you want. And we both know why." Karesse refuses to rip her gaze away or break the eye contact between them even as he lifts his big body from the sofa. Stands directly in front of her, so close that craning her head up because of their height difference grants her a view close enough to see the specks of gold in his eyes. "It's because you don't want him. You can stand there and try do deny it all you want, but I know and you know it's truth."
The silence is damning. The sound of her heart beating wildly and erratically drowning out everything else.
But she can't let it win.
Can't let him win.
Can't let him keep winning.
"You know what I want, Roman?" Karesse steps forward, her voice a whisper that infiltrates the tension fueled silence. "I want you to stop interfering in my life. I want you to stop using our daughter as a pawn—"
"That's fucking bullshit and you know it—"
"No. It's not. It's the truth, and you know it." Karesse swallows, the exhaustion of this whole thing taking its toll when hurt bleeds into the frustration. "I do everything I can to keep our coparenting as peaceful as possible for the sake of Bri, but sometimes…."
"What?" He presses, tilting his head and pushing her in a way no one else can. Or ever will, most likely. The anger ebbed away by her own emotional pain easily picked up and utilized to maximize his vexation. "You want a formal custody agreement? Is that what you want?" She closes her eyes and drops her head. Here he goes. "Fine. Let's do it." Karesse lifts her head just in time to witness the sneer before the bomb. "You won't last five fucking minutes in that courtroom."
And just like that, all defenses are instantly dismantled. The drop of her shoulders, slight widening of her eyes and tightening of her chest preceding the intrusion of memories she'd give anything to rid herself of permanently.
"No!" Her shouts echoed throughout the courtroom as she worked to free herself from the hands persistent and hellbent at grabbing her. "I don't wanna go!" Tears filled her eyes as she refused to rip her eyes from Keith who wrestled against the court officers who restricted him. The judge's warnings drowned out under the sorrow of what'd just occurred. "Please, Mr. Judge! I wanna stay with Keith!" A beat. "I wanna stay with my brother!"
"Karesse."
It's the desperate, concerned call of her name that rips her from memories shoved so far to the back of her mind that despite years of trying her damn hardest, she's never been able to purge. Never been able to forget.
Never will.
"Fuck," Roman curses lowly, as she gradually returns to the reality before her versus the one behind. "Fuck, I'm sorry. I shouldn't—I shouldn't have said that."
Recognition continues to grow as she becomes aware of the fact that not only is he standing directly in front of her, but his hands are on her. Gently cupping her face, his lips pressed against her hairline. She closes her eyes, standing completely still, frozen in place and time as he continues to issue apology after apology.
Finally, however, the ice thaws enough for her to regain control.
To revoke the power from a past that's only ever debilitated.
She shoves at his chest, growling, "get the fuck off of me!"
He's unmoving, arms around her waist, keeping her boxed in. "Kar—"
"I said get off!"
But in true Roman fashion, he stands firm, feet planted and anchored into ground she feels trembling underneath her. Because that's what he always does. Causes the collapse while also standing ten toes down in and for the recovery effort. Always ready to catch what he made fall.
And she does just that.
The beating on his chest and shoving against his solid frame gradually settles and transitions into the way she clutches his shirt.
"How could—how could you s-say that to m-me?" She cries, hating the way his gentle touches, the way his coarse fingers stroke back her hair. and his hand on her hip tugs her just enough to where the desire to lean into him is all but unavoidable. He's like a vortex she can't seem to resist despite all the ways in which he absolutely can be resisted. "You know—"
"I know," he murmurs. Voice hoarse and almost pained, her eyes shut when he presses his lips to hair hairline and the material of his shirt becomes further intertwined in her fingers as her grip tightens. His as well. "I'm sorry." Resolve all but disappears as she finally stops her body's autonomous pull, falling into and against his chest. "You know I would never do that to you or Bri." Her lips press together, eyes clenching shut tighter when he cradles the back of her head. "I love you two too damn much to ever do that to ya'll."
And as sick as it might be, she believes him. Knows that he would, in fact, never do that. For reasons even beyond why such a cruel threat triggered her as much as it did. Because Karesse has been embedded too long in the game that is Roman Reigns to not know him better than most. To know that his inability to manage his temper when backed into a corner will almost always result in him resorting to the lowest of blows.
Followed by immediate regret.
It's become a pattern of theirs, and Karesse lost sight a while ago as to whether or not the recognition of said pattern allows her to forgive him as "easily" as she does. Because she knows he doesn't actually mean it.
Or if it's nothing more than reason #94825903 as to why this game of theirs is one she'll never be able to fully step away from.
Even if they didn't have Briella Mae.
"Stay with me tonight." She stills in his embrace, unsure exactly as to when she transitioned from clutching his shirt to wrapping her arms around him. "Bri, too," he adds, as if it wasn't a given. There has never been a just her since the birth of their daughter. What was once the two of them has been the three ever since. If she's in his suite, so is their baby girl. Naturally so. Because despite the dysfunction that is her parents dynamic, in Bri's eyes, nothing is more normal or right than staying in the same space as her mommy and daddy. "Please." The desperation in his voice tugs at that place in her heart that's never been able to resist him. The part that reciprocates his longing in every sense of the word. "I just want to be with you two."
Karesse can't tell which sickens her more. That in the span of less than five minutes he can go from saying the cruelest of shit to her to being the only person can who can soothe her as such—holding her, professing love, and issuing recompense in any way he can.
Or the fact that she agrees.
November 5th, 2021
The thrum of the base was resounding and relenting. Battling against the boisterous noise of a packed courtyard, bodies mushed together and arms raised with either phones in hand recording or drinks that were either seconds away from being downed or drowned in the sea of individuals, spilling onto the courtyard.
Karesse was in the latter of two groups.
Lips stretched into a broad smile that'd been on her face from the moment she and Amanda started pre-gaming. Music blasting as they helped each other get dressed, hair and makeup prioritized over outfits that left little to the imagination and snagged attention as soon as they sauntered in.
Her bare legs against the cool metal seating in the stadium was dulled out by adrenaline that beamed and soared watching the Panthers score a game winning touchdown in the last ten seconds of the game. The applause was thunderous. For her first two years of college, despite never having a strong interest in sports, she made it a mission to attend every football game. Mostly and primarily because batting her lashes at the right players always meant admission into the best parties.
Parties that, eventually, were a large part of the reason she fucked around and lost her scholarship.
But that was then, and Karesse had learned her lesson the hard way. It'd been forever and a day since she allowed herself to be dragged back to any frat house or off campus apartment. She knew better, but beyond that, she was doing better.
And tonight was not an exception to that. She'd more or less made Amanda swear a blood oath to not allow her to make any reckless ass decisions, and with her roommate and best friend also on the same 'we can't fuck around' grind, it made for the perfect accountability partner.
That didn't mean, however, that Karesse couldn't let loose. This was her senior year and thus her last chance to attend Homecoming. She wasn't about to miss out on a good time, especially when things were going so well in her life.
Better than well.
Way….way better than well.
"Oh shittttttt!" The DJ's voice boomed from his setup, transcending over the crowd and kick-starting various, similar sounds from fellow attendees. Including Amanda who stood beside Karesse and tugged on her arm.
Karesse smiled and lowered her arm to meet glazed over eyes that reflected a certain level of inebriation but not to the point that it deterred or concerned her. While they were both certainly a little tipsy, Karesse, like Amanda, knew their limits. Had partied hard enough their freshman and sophomore year to know now what was the end of the line. They were buzzed. That was about it.
"This our damn song." Amanda threw her hands up as Karesse stuck out her tongue playfully and threw her head back to down the rest of her drink before tossing the empty cup into the crowd.
"Damn sure is."
She easily ignored what sounded like someone protesting and began dancing with her friend, each lady singing out loudly and proudly to Doja Cat and Saweetie's collab that'd easily gone triple platinum in their household since its release.
But the ante was upped when the DJ transitioned to the next song that had Karesse ready to find the nearest table to jump on on so she could be allotted the room needed to shake ass like she really wanted to.
"Damn, I ain't seen your ass in a minute, Shaw."
The loud yet calm, smooth voice that managed to transcend the crowd gathered Karesse's attention. She immediately rolled her eyes. "You know I don't be outside like that no more."
Christian James smiled, emphasizing the dimples in his cheeks and the tooth gems on his canines. "Oh, trust me, I know."
Once upon a time, the 6'1 tight end with light eyes, a pretty smile, and a chiseled body with abs so defined and cut she could slice bread on and with them was someone Karesse cared about. As much as someone coming off an almost two year relationship and away at school for the first time could. They were in the same public speaking class and at the time, true to her nature, she'd been too shy to interact or introduce herself. Them sitting next to each other, however, resulted in him introducing himself, her doing the same, and the rest was history.
They'd vibed well enough, connected on a level she hadn't experienced with a guy outside of her ex, and they'd gone on a handful of dates. She'd rocked his Letterman at points. He made sure that she made it home safe from every party she attended and that no one ever took advantage of her during several nights of drinking to the point where she blacked out. Even leaving a note and Advil on the nightstand for her to take whenever she woke up. The whole nine yards. But at the end of the day, her lack of willingness to sleep with him ended up being the thing that made their flame fizzle out. And she understood it. She respected it, because she could see he tried his best to make it work, but like most guys her age, most men, he needed more.
And she wasn't able or willing to do that.
So they "broke up" in whatever way two people who never actually dated could.
Karesse never referred to him as her boyfriend and vice versa. It was an amicable parting, and they'd run into each other from time to time, but this was the first time they'd interacted beyond the small smile and nod of acknowledgment.
He raked his eyes over her. "You look good."
Karesse started to bite on her bottom lip but remembered her lipstick and instead returned the compliment. "So do you."
And he did.
He'd put on some weight since freshman year, and it looked good on him. His white polo clung to his muscles and highlighted the ink on his right bicep that she didn't recall.
It was that dark ink, however, that reminded Karesse of something.
Roman.
The unanswered texts and missed call she'd forgotten to return as his outreach attempts occurred in the midst of she and Amanda getting ready. She'd meant to call him back while Amanda drove them to campus, but it'd slipped her mind.
Fuck.
But the music transitioning to Juvenile, Amanda gleefully tugging on her arm, and Christian smirking at her all served as other forms of distraction. His eyes twinkled with mischief she understood fully.
"For old time's sake?"
It only took Karesse a minute to contemplate and decide. She could call Roman back later.
He'd understand.
She tilted her head and adjusted her dress, hiking it up mid thigh as she turned around and bent over. Looking back over her shoulder when he moved behind her and started to glide his hand down her back.
"You know it."
It took exactly three slamming on her finger against the snooze button for Karesse to finally find it in her to wake up. And even then, she'd laid in bed and groaned quietly at the sun that peaked through closed blinds for her to muster the strength just to sit up. An action that immediately made her wince as she scratched at her scalp through her bonnet. Stretching her arms made a sort of soreness shoot through her body that she hadn't experienced in a while.
Not since she went through two weeks of intense pole dancing lessons before being "approved" to hit the stage.
Sitting up in bed, leaning against her headboard, the prior night's events gradually returned to her recollection. She wasn't hungover. Didn't have that raging headache that made her bury her head under the covers and hide away in her dorm for hours on end until she could drag herself out of bed. But damn was she exhausted.
What time did we even get back in?
A question that made her grab her phone and drag her hand over her face as she typed in her passcode to unlock it. But the several red numbers next to the green icons at the bottom of the screen as well as the time reflected in the top right corner immediately made her stomach drop.
Fuck.
She never responded to Roman.
She frowned and cursed lowly, briefly contemplating waiting until later but given that it was already almost noon, later seemed like a not great idea.
Her fingers quickly navigated to his contact, thumb hovering over his number when she considered something. She was almost certain she'd never called him on a Sunday. Text, sure, but call?
It made her take pause.
What if….
Karesse took a deep breath and reminded herself that if he was….busy, he simply wouldn't answer the phone.
It was that simple.
She hit call.
Kicking the blankets back, she started to make a quick detour to make sure Amanda was alright but quickly remembered that she wouldn't have made it home if Amanda didn't. They were a package deal, and knowing her roommate, Manda was either also just waking up or still wrapped up in her blanket.
The ringing on the other end ceased as a second of noise followed a quiet, "hello."
"Hey," she smiled, hating the way she almost forgot that he couldn't see her. See the way her eyes lit up at hearing his voice that somehow sounded even deeper over the phone. It was something even more divine when he first woke up. "I'm sorry, I was—"
"Where the fuck were you, Karesse?"
Her smile instantly dropped. It was only then she realized that the harsh tone evoked with his question matched the almost clipped, tense way that he answered the phone. "I'm—I'm sorry?"
"I asked you a question." The frown on her face deepened with each confusing, acrid word that left his mouth. "Where the fuck were you?"
"I—" Stammering wasn't really a character trait of hers outside the first few minutes of meeting someone, and even then, it was more the quiet, short responses vs a clear indication of evident, palpable anxiety. But if there was a moment that called for such conduct, this was it. "I—I was out. It—it was Homecoming, and—"
"You were supposed to be there."
Somehow, the frown on her face deepened. "What?"
It wasn't like this irritated side of him was something she hadn't seen or experienced before. Months of them….whatever one would call it had allowed her to see that he could be….moody. Even more than that. He had a temper, for sure. She saw it firsthand every show she attended, but it was difficult to reconcile the man she saw on TV to the man she spent a good chunk of her time with. Even more, learning as much as she did and had about him, who he was as the Tribal Chief made all the sense.
Out there, he was who he had to be. With her, was who he wanted to be. They had their moments though, for sure. He could be a dick, and she wasn't for the temper tantrum.
Rarely, however, was this extent of that side of him directed towards her. Perhaps until now.
And especially this level of vitriol.
He sounded furious.
His level of anger, however, didn't make any sense to her.
Especially that last statement.
What was he—
And as if someone turned the light on in the room of realization, Karesse's stomach fucking dropped.
"Oh my God."
She ripped that phone away from her ear so quickly that it almost snatched her bonnet off in the process. Fingers hurriedly tapping at the screen to open up her calendar and click yesterday's date confirmed the worst.
Fuck.
She lifted the phone back to her ear, closed her eyes, and slammed her palm against her forehead. "Shit, Roman, I—I completely forgot."
Forgot felt like an understatement. Like the sort of thing one does when they miss an assignment or fail to pencil in an exam or added assignment to their planner. That was one thing.
Forgetting that he'd booked a flight and planned for her to attend his latest PLE was something entirely different.
And clearly, he felt the same.
"You forgot?" His tone, albeit understandable, made her wince. "How the fuck did you forget that?" Suddenly, the hangover wasn't looking so bad. Being on the receiving end of an upset Roman Reigns was the last thing on her itinerary for the day. "I told you about this weeks ago."
"I know. I know." She sighed and shook her head, suddenly wishing she'd have FaceTime'd him so he could see how truly apologetic she was and how bad she felt. "I guess, I just—I'm sorry. I'll be at the next one," she offered, hope revived. "I promise."
Even if she had to set reminders for every damn day leading up to said event, she would make sure this would never happen again.
"What makes you think you're invited?"
At that, her shoulders dropped.
Him making and organizing her flights to his shows or PLE's was a bit of a regular thing. Sometimes, it felt like she spent more time at the airport than her own apartment these days. Not that she ever complained. Never in her wildest dreams could she have imagined being flew all over the country—and beyond—by a man like Roman.
And it wasn't even the underlying implication of his question that their arrangement was about to change that was shifting the tides away from regret. He had a right to be upset with her, sure. Time and money wasted would irritate anyone.
It was the level of his vitriol, however, that was starting to irritate her.
"Roman, I made a mistake, okay?" She scoffed. "I—"
"And who the fuck was that boy that you were all over?"
Another question that took her back for several and obvious reasons.
"What are you—"
But once more, another door opened as she once again pulled back her phone to navigate. This time to the app with the yellow icon that revealed several Snapchat stories she didn't even really remember uploading. Naturally, the sound was muted as it was being used for the phone call, but audio wasn't needed to understand what she was watching.
The motion of her ass bent over and twerking against a lap. Her being hoisted over a set of shoulders. The way she was laughing and giggling while posing with and against Christian and Amanda as well as a few other familiar faces. Several, as some of the clips surveyed the multitude of crowds she was immersed in. Truly playful, innocent moments that she could fully understand and see how he could see as otherwise.
She suddenly regretted showing him how Snapchat worked and making him an account. Remembered the way he grumbled about "never" using "that shit." But he'd made himself out to be a liar, because swiping up certainly revealed his username in the list of viewers.
Karesse closed her eyes once more.
This was a fucking mess.
Licking her lips, she blew out a breath and opted to switch to speaker, allowing the phone to settle into the sheets. "He—he's just a friend. Barely even that."
"I couldn't fucking tell."
Again, his tone lapped at her waning contrition.
"We didn't do anything." And he, of all people, should know that. "And I was just—I was just having fun." A good ass time that suddenly felt like the worst night of her life given the verbal reprimand she was receiving from the least expected person ever.
"You had an obligation, Karesse." Something about his tone, disciplinary almost, struck something within her. "I don't understand—"
"Oh my God, it was one show. What's the big fucking deal?" She snapped, partially aware of where the sudden defensiveness was coming from but fully unwilling to acknowledge said source.
But if he was angry before, he was pissed following her matching his energy. His voice a borderline growl on the other end with an uncharacteristic undertone of desperation and anxiety. "The big fucking deal is that I needed you there!"
"I've gone to almost all of your shows since we met, Roman! Why did I need to be at this one?" If not actually all of them, and even though she didn't have the results of his match, she already knew it wasn't like he lost so what was his fucking malfunction?
Karesse threw her hands up, fully frustrated and flustered, hating the way her eyes were starting to water and her chest was tightening. "For fucks sake, I'm 21, and it was my last Homecoming. Sue me for being a stupid college kid who just wanted to let loose for one fucking night! What do you expect?"
The silence on the other end was both unexpected and unsettling, the latter magnified exponentially when his voice took a 180.
"You're right," he said. The almost calm intonation making her stomach churn and cuddle. He hadn't sounded like that since....since he found out she'd lied to him about her age. "What was I expecting?"
She closed her eyes. Fuck. "Roman—"
Her station eclipsed by the call dropping occurred in tandem with the collapse of something deep within her chest.
a/n: so, obviously, there are a handful of similarities between this and the 'with series' what with karesse being a long-term mistress, if we will. so i did my best to make her characterization and backstory the opposite of reader as well as gave this storyline a shit ton more layers. this one will def fuck with your head cause the nuances are insane. karesse and roman are....something. a hell of a lot more backstory in part two as well as wifey's pov.
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.
I know the main event was epic but we have to celebrate this because that match between Fénix and Laredo Kid was amazing. How many Mexican muscle busters did it take to end the Laredo kids' reign?
Can't wait to see what happens next and who he's gonna defend the title with.....maybe Master Gable will be a part of that 🤷🏻♀️
I know the main event was epic but we have to celebrate this because that match between Fénix and Laredo Kid was amazing. How many Mexican muscle busters did it take to end the Laredo kids' reign?
Can't wait to see what happens next and who he's gonna defend the title with.....maybe Master Gable will be a part of that 🤷🏻♀️
