Ruthless Kings of Obsession (Leighton Royals University #3)

37. Redemption Is Earned

Redemption Is Earned

~ G EMINI~

The kitchen fills with the comforting aroma of baking cookies and simmering pasta sauce, a domestic scene that would seem absurd to anyone who knew our true nature. Hannah moves around me with practiced efficiency, our culinary dance perfected over weeks of unexpected friendship.

My mind drifts briefly to Ares, remembering how he'd stumbled in earlier looking thoroughly drained from his photoshoot. The dark circles under his eyes had made something protective stir in my chest.

"Go rest," I'd urged, leading him toward our bedroom. But of course, rest wasn't all he'd needed. The memory of him coming undone in my mouth, his usual perfect composure shattered by exhaustion and pleasure, brings a small smile to my face.

"The cookies need another three minutes," Hannah observes, pulling me from my thoughts. Her timing, as always, is impeccable.

I adjust the heat under the pasta sauce before turning to face her fully. "Hannah," I start carefully, measuring my words. "What do you know about The Blind One?"

The slight pause in her movements is telling. "That's quite a loaded question, Miss Prescott."

"I need to understand what we're dealing with," I press, watching her expression carefully. "Especially given recent... developments."

Hannah's sigh is barely audible as she checks the cookies with mechanical precision. "Information about him is remarkably scarce, despite extensive research. However," she sets the timer for two more minutes, "I did discover why he carries that particular moniker."

"You mean besides the obvious?" I lean against the counter, curiosity piqued.

"His eyes were burned out," Hannah states matter-of-factly, though something in her tone suggests the story carries more weight than simple injury. "During an incident that remains largely shrouded in mystery."

The casual way she delivers such violent information makes me shiver. "Burned out? Like... deliberately?"

"Most likely," she confirms, moving to stir the pasta sauce. "Though whether it was punishment, ritual, or something else entirely remains unclear."

I process this, remembering the unsettling presence he commanded even through phone calls. "What about family? Connections?"

"He has a child," Hannah reveals, though her tone suggests this information comes with caveats. "But establishing any direct relationship has proven... challenging. As for spouse or extended family – that information remains frustratingly elusive."

"How does someone with that much influence maintain such perfect anonymity?" I wonder aloud, more to myself than Hannah.

But she answers anyway: "The same way he maintains his power – through careful application of very specific services."

"Services?" I prompt, though something cold settles in my stomach at her tone.

Hannah turns off the burner under the sauce, her movements deliberate as she chooses her next words. "The Blind One has essentially cornered the market on what you might call 'creative punishment protocols.'"

"You mean like what happened to Scarlett?" The words taste bitter on my tongue.

"Precisely." Hannah's expression carries carefully controlled disgust. "It seems the traditional methods of elimination – bullets, family annihilation, etc. – have grown... pedestrian for some tastes. Modern power players prefer more lasting forms of suffering."

"Like giving people incurable diseases?" I can't keep the horror from my voice. "That's somehow considered more refined than just killing them?"

"Death is quick," Hannah observes clinically. "Watching someone you love waste away while knowing you're responsible for their suffering? That's the kind of psychological torture our world has developed quite an appetite for."

The timer beeps, making me jump slightly. Hannah removes the cookies with perfect timing, setting them to cool as she continues. "The Blind One provides these services with unparalleled efficiency. But," her tone grows sharper, more warning, "everything he offers comes with a price."

"What kind of price?"

"The kind that's never fully explained until it's time to collect." Hannah's eyes meet mine, carrying real concern. "And when he comes to collect, Miss Prescott, you either pay your dues or someone pays them for you."

The sound of the front door opening cuts through the heavy atmosphere, followed by the dull thud of something heavy hitting marble floors. Footsteps approach the kitchen, uneven and lacking their usual swagger.

Domino appears in the doorway, and my heart actually stutters at the sight of him. His face is a mess of bruises, one eye nearly swollen shut, blood caking what looks like a split lip. The perfect hockey star image he usually maintains is completely shattered, replaced by someone who looks like they've gone ten rounds with professional fighters.

"Jesus," the word escapes before I can stop it. My feet move without conscious thought, closing the distance between us. "What happened to you?"

He lets out a harsh laugh that turns into a wince. "What's this?" His voice comes out rough, like he's been screaming. "You actually give a shit now? Or am I still the piece of trash who deserves whatever beating comes my way?"

The bitterness in his tone makes me pause, my hand frozen halfway to his face. Part of me – the part that remembers years of torment, of calculated cruelty – wants to pull back. Wants to maintain the careful distance I've built between us.

But something in his eyes, visible even through the swelling and blood, makes that impossible. Because beneath the anger and pain, I catch a glimpse of something else. Something that looks terrifyingly like resignation.

"Shut up and sit down," I order, gesturing to one of the kitchen stools. "Hannah?—"

"First aid kit is already on its way," she confirms smoothly, moving to retrieve ice from the freezer.

Domino doesn't move, his good eye fixed on me with an intensity that makes my skin prickle. "Since when do you play nurse? Thought that role was reserved for your precious Kings."

"You are one of my Kings," I remind him sharply, the words surprising us both. "Now sit down before you fall down."

Something flickers across his battered features – surprise maybe, or disbelief. But he complies, sinking onto the stool with a barely suppressed groan. Up close, the damage looks even worse. Whatever happened, it wasn't just a simple fight.

"Who did this?" I ask, accepting the first aid supplies Hannah quietly sets beside us. My fingers are steady as I begin cleaning blood from his face, though anger burns hot in my chest.

"Thought you'd be happy," he mutters, flinching slightly as I dab at particularly nasty cut above his eye. "Isn't this what you wanted? To see me suffer?"

"Not like this." The words emerge softer than intended, heavy with implications neither of us is ready to face. "This isn't... this wasn't me."

His laugh holds no humor. "No? Isn't this karma finally catching up to me? Isn't this exactly what I deserve?"

"Just shut up," I snap, though the words lack their usual venom. My hands remain steady as I sort through the first aid supplies, trying to ignore how right he is. How perfectly his words align with everything I've told myself I wanted.

A phone rings somewhere in the distance, its cheerful tone jarringly out of place in this moment of tension.

"I'll take that in the other room," Hannah announces smoothly. "The pasta sauce is on low heat, Miss Prescott."

"Thanks, Hannah." My voice sounds strange to my own ears – too soft, too uncertain. I focus on gathering gauze and antiseptic, trying to make sense of the contradiction between what I should feel and what's actually coursing through me.

Domino remains unnaturally still as I work, his usual restless energy contained in a way that feels wrong. Blood continues to trickle from the cut above his eyebrow, marking paths through already-forming bruises like macabre art.

"Why?" I ask again, softer this time. "What happened?"

The silence stretches between us, heavy with years of complicated history. Just when I think he won't answer, his voice emerges barely above a whisper: "Would it make things easier if I just... disappeared?"

My hands freeze, the alcohol-soaked gauze hovering inches from his face. Our eyes meet – one of his nearly swollen shut, the other carrying an intensity that makes my chest ache. Something passes between us in that look, something that transcends our careful masks and practiced hatred.

"Have you been taking your medicine?" The question comes out sharper than intended, worry making my tone harsh.

"Yes." The word falls like a stone between us.

"And therapy?" I press, watching his face for tells I've learned to read over years of calculated warfare. "Have you been going?"

His laugh holds no humor. "By force, obviously." Then, quieter: "Not like I have a choice in the matter."

"Then why the fuck would you ask me that?" My voice cracks slightly, betraying emotions I'm not ready to examine. "Why would you?—"

"Because I needed you to tell me off," he cuts in, his words carrying a rawness I've never heard from him. "Needed you to react, to give me a reason to actually show up to those sessions. To keep trying when everything in me wants to just... stop."

Something cold settles in my stomach as his meaning sinks in. "It must make your day," I mutter, focusing on cleaning his wounds to avoid his gaze, "knowing you can still get under my skin. Still make me worry."

"That's just it," he says, so quietly I almost miss it. "I don't understand why you give a damn at all."

A heavy sigh escapes me as I set down the gauze. "Why are you saying this, Domino?"

When he meets my eyes again, the intensity there steals my breath. All our careful pretenses, all our practiced hatred – it falls away, leaving something raw and desperate in its place.

"My entire life," he starts, each word seeming to cost him, "has been focused on hating you. On breaking you. On making sure every breath you took was tainted by my presence." His voice cracks slightly. "It was my purpose, my obsession, the thing that defined me."

I stay perfectly still, afraid any movement might shatter this moment of brutal honesty.

"And now?" He lets out a shaky breath. "Now I sit in these therapy sessions, listening to someone pick apart every twisted thing I've done. Every calculated cruelty, every moment of violence, every time I chose to hurt you just because I could."

His good eye closes briefly, pain flickering across his features that has nothing to do with physical wounds. "They make me talk about it – about why I did it, about what I was feeling, about all the fucked-up reasons I convinced myself it was okay."

When he opens his eye again, there's something haunted in his gaze. "And I'm starting to see it. Really see it. All of it. The way I wouldn't let you have a single moment of peace, the way I turned every kindness into a weapon, the way I—" He cuts himself off, swallowing hard. "The way I broke everything good just because I couldn't stand seeing it exist."

My hands shake slightly as I reach for fresh gauze, needing something to do, some way to ground myself in this surreal moment.

"Now the constant need to hurt you, to control you, to make you suffer – it's not there anymore. Or maybe it is, but it's different. Quieter. And I don't—" His voice catches. "I don't know who I am without it. Without that driving force that's shaped every decision, every action, every moment of my life."

The confession hangs between us like smoke, heavy with implications neither of us is fully prepared to face.

"It makes me feel wrong," he continues, each word seeming to cost him more. "Like I'm unnecessary. Unwanted. Like maybe everyone would be better off if I just... wasn't here anymore. Because what's the point of existing if I'm not fulfilling the only purpose I've ever known?"

Tears gather in his good eye, making it gleam in the kitchen's warm light. "I look at you now – at how strong you've become, at the family you've built, at everything you've achieved despite everything I did to break you – and I realize I'm just... extra. A reminder of trauma you don't need. A piece that doesn't fit anymore."

The gauze crumples in my grip as his words hit home. Because this is Domino – my tormentor, my nightmare, my stepbrother who turned childhood into a battlefield – admitting not just weakness, but something far more devastating.

He's admitting to being lost.

"The therapy sessions," he whispers, his voice rough with emotion I've never heard from him before, "they're making me see things I can't unsee. Feel things I don't know how to handle. And sometimes I think—" He breaks off, drawing a shaky breath. "Sometimes I think it would be easier for everyone if I just stopped existing. If I removed myself from the equation entirely."

The clinical part of my mind recognizes this for what it is – a cry for help wrapped in confession. But the rest of me, the part that remembers years of careful survival, doesn't know how to process this version of him.

Because how do you respond when your greatest tormentor admits to being haunted by their own actions? When the monster from your nightmares reveals they're drowning in the consequences of their choices?

The kitchen light catches his tears as they finally spill over, tracking through blood and bruises like some twisted form of penance. And I realize, with a clarity that terrifies me, that I don't know how to hate this version of him.

I don't know how to hate someone who's finally facing the weight of their own darkness.

The weight of his confession settles over me like a physical thing, making each breath feel heavy with possibility and doubt.

How do you forgive someone who's shaped your entire existence around pain? How do you let go of years of calculated hatred when it's become as natural as breathing?

"We got pretty good at hating each other, didn't we?" The words emerge soft, almost contemplative as I study his battered face. "It feels strange now – not having that constant battle between us."

My free hand moves of its own accord, fingers gentle as they brush away tears he probably doesn't even realize he's shedding. Our eyes lock, and for a moment I see past the bruises, past the blood, to something raw and uncertain beneath.

"Stop the therapy."

He blinks, his good eye widening slightly as he processes my words. For several heartbeats, he just stares, as if trying to determine whether he heard correctly.

"Matteo and the others aren't going to approve—" he starts, but I cut him off with a sharp gesture.

"Your Queen says stop," I declare, letting authority color my tone. "You'll listen to me."

A frown creases his forehead, pulling at various cuts and bruises. "I could be playing you," he mutters, though something in his voice suggests he's trying to convince himself more than me. "Could be manipulating you to get off the hook."

As if to prove his point, his hand comes up to wrap around my throat. The gesture should terrify me – has terrified me countless times before. But there's no pressure in his grip, no real threat. He's just... holding on. Like he needs the physical connection to anchor himself to this moment where everything between us has shifted.

"Who hurt you?" I whisper, watching how his fingers tremble slightly against my skin.

"The hockey team." He attempts a casual shrug that doesn't quite hide his pain. "Who wants the new favorite of the world on their team after I lost on the opposite side but still get a pass 'cause my Dad is the owner of the university?" His smirk holds no humor, tears continuing to track down his cheeks though he seems oblivious to them.

How much pain are you carrying? I wonder, watching him try to maintain his facade even as it crumbles. How many wounds are you hiding beneath all that carefully crafted cruelty?

He turns away suddenly, as if he can't bear to meet my gaze any longer. "This scares the fuck out of me," he admits, voice barely above a whisper. "This... calm. Because I can hear it now."

"Hear what?"

"The clock." His words carry a weight that makes my chest tight. "Ticking away until my time's up. Until it's time to collect and pay for my dues."

"The Blinded One," I say softly, and his head snaps back to face me. Something passes between us in that look – understanding maybe, or shared fear.

"What did you request from him?"

"For everything to disappear." His admission comes out rough, pained. "For all of it to just... go away."

"I did that for you," I remind him, though the words taste strange on my tongue. "I made it disappear."

"Doesn't matter." He shakes his head slightly, wincing at the movement. "I still made the request. Still had involvement, even if I'm faking it now. Can't prove otherwise, so he'll come to collect."

I take a deep breath, considering his words as I pick up fresh gauze. Without warning, I pour a generous amount of alcohol onto it and press it firmly against the worst cut above his eye.

"Fuck!" He hisses, jerking slightly though his hand remains gentle on my throat. "Can't you be gentle?"

"Maybe," I say pointedly, continuing to clean the wound despite his protests, "if you learned to trust in me and hate me later, you'd make less stupid decisions."

His fingers flex slightly against my skin, not threatening but definitely agitated. "Trust you?" The words emerge somewhere between laugh and sob. "After everything?—"

"Yes," I cut him off firmly. "After everything. Because that's what's different now, isn't it? That's what's really scaring you. Not The Blinded One, not the therapy, not even the beating you just took." I press the gauze harder, making him wince. "What terrifies you is the possibility that maybe, just maybe, we could actually trust each other."

His good eye searches my face, looking for deception or mockery. Finding none, his expression crumples slightly. "How?" The question carries years of complicated history. "How could you ever trust me after what I've done?"

"I don't know," I admit honestly. "But I'm tired of letting our past dictate our future. Tired of playing roles we chose when we were too young to understand the consequences."

His hand shifts from my throat to cup my cheek, the gesture surprisingly tender. "I broke you," he whispers, voice cracking. "Broke us. Broke everything that could have been good between us."

"You tried," I correct softly. "But look at me now. Look at what I've become despite everything you did to destroy me." My free hand covers his where it rests against my face. "Maybe it's time to stop breaking things and start building something new."

A tear slides down his cheek, cutting through dried blood. "I don't know how."

"Neither do I," I confess, continuing to clean his wounds with gentler movements now. "But I know that watching you destroy yourself won't fix anything. Won't erase what happened or make the future any clearer."

His breath hitches slightly as I work. "What about The Blind One? When he comes to collect?—"

"Then we'll face it together," I say firmly, surprising us both with my conviction. "Because you're one of my Kings now, whether we like it or not. And I protect what's mine."

Something like hope flickers in his expression before doubt crowds it out. "Your other Kings might have something to say about that."

"Let me handle them." I start applying butterfly bandages to the worst cuts, my touch careful but sure. "You focus on learning how to exist in this new version of us. On finding out who you are without hatred as your compass."

His hand drops from my face, but instead of pulling away completely, his fingers intertwine with mine. The gesture feels monumental somehow – like something breaking and mending simultaneously.

"I still don't understand," he murmurs, watching me work with his good eye. "Why you'd even try to help me after everything."

"Because sometimes," I say softly, securing the last bandage, "the hardest person to forgive isn't the one who hurt you – it's yourself." I meet his gaze steadily. "And maybe we both need to learn how to do that before we can move forward."

His grip on my hand tightens slightly, and for once, neither of us pulls away from the connection.

"I still hate your guts though," I mutter, acutely aware of how he's shifted closer, the space between us charged with something dangerous and electric. Our eyes remain locked, neither willing to look away first. "That's not going to change."

His breath fans across my face, warm and unsteady. "I need that," he admits roughly. "Need to hate you too, or I'll lose my fucking mind."

The confession hangs between us, heavy with implications neither of us is ready to face. Because hatred is safe – it's familiar territory, a battlefield we both know how to navigate. This new thing building between us? This tentative trust wrapped in years of complicated history? That's terrifying.

"Promise me you won't disappear," I say softly, the words emerging more vulnerable than intended.

He huffs out a laugh that holds no humor. "You know I don't do well with promise shit."

"I know." My fingers ghost over the bandages I've just applied, feeling him shiver slightly at the touch. "But only I get to steal the breath from you, and you know that." My voice drops lower, more intense. "Honor that, just like I honor the fact that no one gets to kill me except you."

Our faces are so close now I can count his individual eyelashes, see the flecks of gold in his good eye. The air between us feels electric, charged with possibility and danger in equal measure. His gaze drops to my lips before snapping back up, and I catch the slight hitch in his breathing.

"I can agree to those terms and conditions," he says finally, voice rough. "For now." He pauses, seeming to wrestle with something. "But if I stop therapy... I still want the medicine."

I arch an eyebrow, watching his expression carefully. "Oh?"

"The condition your Kings gave me…well Matteo and Marcus specifically," he elaborates, forcing the words out like they physically pain him. "Therapy and medication. And even though the capsules taste like shit..." He swallows hard, looking away briefly. "They help me think better. Straighter. The voices aren't as impulsive or persuasive."

Something in my chest tightens at his admission. "Yeah?"

"Yeah." His fingers flex against my skin, still so gentle despite our proximity. "I feel like I have a mind of my own. Like not getting what I want immediately doesn't become an obsession that ruins my entire fucking day." A bitter laugh escapes him. "Only thing I hate is not being able to leave my room at night. That shit's getting hard."

A smirk curves my lips before I can stop it.

"What? Need to stalk outside my room while I'm fucking another King?"

"Maybe." He shrugs, deliberately avoiding my gaze. Then, so quietly I almost miss it: "You have no fucking idea how hard it is to watch this evolution of you and not get a single taste."

The words hit me like a physical blow, making heat pool low in my belly despite everything. Because he's right – our previous encounters were always about power, about control, about breaking each other in new and creative ways. Never about mutual desire or genuine need.

A sigh escapes me as I process his words. "Well," I say carefully, "maybe if you're on good behavior and try not to kill me by the new year, we can find a compromise."

His eye widens slightly. "Compromise?"

"Mm." I let my fingers trail down his jaw, feeling how his pulse jumps beneath my touch. "Start over on a better, less damaged foot."

"Just like that?" Disbelief colors his tone, though something like hope flickers in his expression. "After everything?"

"Not just like that," I correct firmly. "But maybe... gradually. If you can prove you're actually trying to change. To be better."

His hand comes up to catch mine where it rests against his face. "I don't know how to be better," he admits roughly. "Don't know how to want you without wanting to destroy you too."

The honesty in his voice makes something in my chest ache. Because this is Domino – my tormentor, my nightmare, my stepbrother who turned childhood into a battlefield – admitting not just weakness, but desire.

"Maybe that's the point," I whisper, watching how his pupils dilate at our proximity. "Learning how to want without breaking. How to touch without shattering."

His breath catches audibly. "Is that what this is? A lesson in control?"

"More like..." I search for the right words, "an experiment in trust. In seeing if we can build something new from all these broken pieces."

His fingers tighten slightly around mine, not painful but definitely desperate. "And if we can't? If all we know how to do is hurt each other?"

"Then at least we tried," I say softly. "At least we didn't let fear of the past stop us from possibly having a different future."

Something dark and hungry flashes in his expression. "A future where I get to taste you properly?" The words come out rough, almost predatory. "Where I don't have to watch from the shadows while your Kings claim what I can only dream about?"

Heat floods my cheeks at his bluntness, but I don't look away. "Maybe," I concede carefully. "If you earn it. If you prove you can be trusted with that kind of power."

"Trust," he echoes, like the word itself is foreign. "After everything I've done to break your trust, to break you..."

"Yes," I cut him off firmly. "Because that's what growth looks like, Domino. Learning from past mistakes instead of letting them define you forever."

His thumb traces circles against my palm where our hands remain joined. "And your Kings? They'd allow this... evolution between us?"

A small smile plays at my lips. "They don't allow or disallow anything," I remind him. "I make my own choices. But," I add, seeing hope spark in his expression, "they'd need to see real change first. Real effort to be better."

"Better," he mutters, testing the word. "Not sure I know how to be that."

"Then learn," I say simply. "Take your medicine. Work on controlling your impulses. Prove that you can want something without needing to destroy it completely."

His eye searches my face, looking for deception or mockery. Finding none, his expression softens slightly. "And if I do all that? If I actually manage to become someone worthy of your trust?"

"Then maybe," I whisper, letting my free hand rest against his chest where his heart thunders beneath my palm, "we'll see what kind of taste you've earned."

The decision forms before I can overthink it.

I lean forward, pressing my lips to his in a kiss that's almost hesitant – testing, uncertain, waiting for the usual violence to surface.

But Domino surprises me, responding with a gentleness I didn't know he possessed. His lips move against mine softly, almost reverently, turning what should be another battle into something unexpectedly tender.

We break apart after several heartbeats, both slightly breathless. Our eyes meet, heavy-lidded and intense, and I watch his gaze drop to my lips like he's memorizing the moment.

"See?" A smirk plays at my mouth. "Did you die? Now you know what it's like to be a good boy."

He grunts, moving as if to leave, but I press closer, trapping him against the counter. The hard length of him presses against me, making his breath hitch slightly.

"Be good," I murmur, enjoying how his pupils dilate at the command. "At least until we figure out when The Blind One comes to collect. Then we'll handle whatever comes next."

A tired laugh escapes him. "And the hockey thing? You going to try to fix that too?"

"I could—" I start, but he cuts me off with a slight shake of his head.

"I'll handle it," he says firmly. "Don't need you trying to tame a bunch of fuckers who hate me for being on their enemy team and then joining in. They'll either get over it or they won't."

I open my mouth to argue, but he suddenly tenses. "The stew's burning."

"What?" I spin toward the stove, cursing – only to find the sauce simmering perfectly fine. "You bastard, it's not even?—"

The words die in my throat as I feel him step closer, his fingers threading through my shortened hair with surprising tenderness. The touch is so gentle, so unlike our usual interactions, that I find myself holding perfectly still.

His expression has shifted into something almost peaceful – an echo of Matteo's usual calm that looks strange but not unwelcome on his features. "How long until it grows back?" he asks softly, still playing with the silver strands.

"Six months, probably," I respond, watching him carefully. "Might try a new growth serum though."

He nods absently, letting his hand drop. "Gonna rest up for a bit," he says, turning toward the door. Then, so quietly I almost miss it: "Maybe I'll live long enough to see it full length again."

I give him a sharp look, but he's already moving away. "Make sure you throw your nasty hockey gear in the hamper," I call after him. "No one wants to smell sweaty hockey shit before dinner."

"Whatever," he grumbles, but there's no real heat in it.

As his footsteps fade, I turn toward the other doorway. "You can come out now, Ares," I say firmly. "And leave the gun in the other room. No weapons at the dinner table."

There's a moment of silence before he emerges slowly, looking both impressed and slightly sheepish. "How did you know I was there?"

I shrug, trying to hide my smile. "Took a chance."

His arms wrap around me from behind, warm and secure as he presses a kiss to the top of my head. His presence feels like an anchor, grounding me after the emotional complexity of the previous interaction.

"That was... interesting," he says carefully, his chin resting on my shoulder.

The understatement makes me laugh softly. "That's one word for it."

His arms tighten slightly. "Are you okay? That seemed... intense."

I lean back against his chest, letting out a long breath. "I honestly don't know," I admit. "Everything with him is so complicated. Just when I think I know exactly how to feel, he shows me something new."

"Like actually being capable of gentleness?" Ares suggests, his voice carefully neutral.

"Yeah." I close my eyes briefly, remembering the unexpected tenderness of that kiss. "It's easier when he's just the monster, you know? When I can hate him without question or doubt."

Ares hums thoughtfully, his fingers drawing patterns on my stomach through my shirt. "And now?"

"Now..." I search for the right words. "Now I see someone who's actually trying to change. Someone who's just as scared and broken as the rest of us, even if he shows it differently."

"You really believe he can change?" There's no judgment in Ares's tone, just genuine curiosity.

I turn in his arms, meeting his gaze directly. "I believe he's finally willing to try. And maybe... maybe that's enough for now."

His hand comes up to cup my face, thumb brushing my cheek with familiar tenderness. "Just be careful," he murmurs. "Change is good, but some people only pretend to transform when they're really just waiting for a better opportunity to strike."

"I know." I lean into his touch, savoring the simple comfort of it. "But I also know what it's like to be trapped by who you used to be. To want to evolve but not know how."

Understanding flickers in his expression. "Like when I first started modeling? When everyone thought I was just a pretty face playing at being successful?"

"Exactly." I press a soft kiss to his palm. "Sometimes people surprise you. Sometimes they actually become more than their past would suggest."

He studies me for a long moment, something thoughtful in his gaze. "You're too good for this world sometimes," he says finally. "Too willing to see the potential in people who don't deserve your faith."

"Or maybe," I counter gently, "I just understand what it's like to be underestimated. To have people decide who you are based on who you used to be."

His smile turns soft, almost sad. "Just don't let your compassion blind you to danger. We can't lose you – not to The Blind One, not to Domino's redemption arc, not to anything."

"You won't lose me," I promise, reaching up to trace the perfect lines of his face. "I'm too obsessed with all of you to go anywhere."

His laugh vibrates through his chest. "Speaking of obsession," he murmurs, leaning down until his lips brush mine, "should we tell Matteo about this little development with our resident problem child?"

"Later," I whisper against his mouth. "Right now, I just want to focus on making dinner without any more emotional revelations or complicated conversations."

"Mm." He pulls back slightly, though his arms remain secure around me. "Need help with the sauce?"

The normalcy of the question makes something warm unfurl in my chest. Because this is what we've built – this strange, beautiful family where intense emotional moments can transition seamlessly into domestic tasks.

"Always," I say softly, turning back to the stove. "Though you might want to put that gun away first. I meant what I said about no weapons at the table."

His answering chuckle carries equal parts amusement and promise.

"Yes, my Queen. Whatever you command."