The three of us sat in a ring—Conley, steady and sharp; Angel, quietly fierce; me, a woman who had become both an instrument and a guardian. The dynamic felt dangerous and, oddly, tender. We were an alliance forged of desire, strategy, and necessity.
After the meeting, Conley’s hand brushed my cheek in the old way—possession wrapped in comfort. “Stay close to me tonight,” he whispered. “I want the house undivided.”
I nodded. The instruction felt like both plea and command.
We slept in the thin, private room carved out behind the public narrative. Later, in the dark, Conley rolled over and cupped my face, thumb tracing the place where his teeth had left a crescent. “You’re more than our optics,” he murmured. “You are the thing that holds us together.”
The words were warm and dangerous.
