Page 113 of Glorious Ruin
I stood up, walking over to my suitcase to retrieve a clean pair of boxers, but as I zipped the bag shut, I paused. An entirely strategic idea popped into my brain.
I turned back to face him, a small, wicked smirk returning to my face.
“Tomorrow morning,” I said, my voice steady and commanding. “When we walk into that venue at eight AM, I want you to wear one of the other thongs I know you packed in your bag. The black one.”
Si blinked, his blissed-out, exhausted mind completely confused by the sudden request. He shifted on the couch, his brow furrowing slightly. “What? Why do you want me wearing that under my jeans?”
I walked back over to him, leaning down until my lips were brushing the shell of his ear, my hand resting flat over his heart.
“Because,” I whispered, my voice dripping with a dark, victorious confidence that made his pulse jump all over again. “There is business we have to take care of in the morning, and when it’s over, I want you sitting in that arena knowing exactly who you belong to.”
29
ORLANDO, FLORIDA
Now Playing: Bird Dog - Shamans Harvest
Silaswascompletelyburiedbeneath the heavy white duvet, his massive frame sprawled across the mattress like a fallen god, his hair a wild, tangled web against the pillows.
I stood by the edge of the bed, already dressed in a sharp, tailored black button-down shirt and dark charcoal slacks. My body was a map of agony. I hadn’t slept a single second. I’d spent the remaining hours of the night sitting in the dark, watching the slow, even rise and fall of Si’s chest, my mind running through the blueprint Jim and Tate had laid out.
I reached down, my hand gripping Silas’s bare shoulder, shaking him with a gentle pressure. “Si. Wake up, baby.”
He let out a long, miserable groan. His shoulders tensed beneath the sheets as he buried his face deeper into the pillow. He was notoriously, spectacularly grumpy in the mornings, and the fact that the clock on the nightstand read exactly 6:45 AM wasn’t helping his mood whatsoever.
“Cal… no.” His Southern drawl was thick with exhaustion. He reached out blindly, searching the empty space beside him for my warmth.
“We have a schedule to keep, champion.” My tone shifted into that authoritative register that usually made his posture straighten.
He peeked out from beneath the duvet, his brow furrowing into a frustrated scowl. “A schedule for what? The rehearsal block isn’t until noon. Why the hell are you dressed like you’re going to a funeral?”
I didn’t answer his question. I couldn’t. If I gave him even a single hint that we were heading into a high-stakes ambush, his brain would instantly short-circuit into a manic, over-calculating loop of panic. I needed him moving, and I needed him moving now.
I strode over to his open suitcase, digging through the neatly folded piles of clothes until I found a pair of dark jeans and a fitted black sweater. I yanked them out, tossing them onto the mattress beside him. But as I turned back toward the bag, my fingers brushed against a slippery, elastic piece of fabric hidden in the side pocket.
A wicked smirk formed at the corner of my mouth. I turned back to the bed holding the thong between two fingers and tossed it directly at his bare chest.
“Don’t think I fucking forgot.” My voice was a low, suggestive purr as I turned on my heel and walked toward the bathroom to grab our travel kits.
Behind me, the sheets rustled as Silas sat upright in bed. The horny, submissive beast inside him woke up in a fraction of a second. He didn’t know what the day held, but that single gesture likely gave him hope that whatever bullshit we were about to endure would inevitably lead to him getting thoroughly railed into the mattress later tonight.
“I’m moving!” Si called out, his voice pitching up with a sudden excitement as his bare feet hit the floor. “I’m moving.”
The drive through the palm tree-lined avenues of Orlando was an exercise in total composure.
The morning sun was beginning to break over the horizon, bleeding a soft, pinkish-gold light across the humid Florida landscape. Si sat in the passenger seat of the car, blissfully unaware of what was waiting for us at the end of the highway. He looked entirely at ease, his posture relaxed, his legs splayed wide. His fingers were lazily tracing patterns onto the center console, occasionally reaching over to touch the edge of my slacks.
He thought we were heading to an empty arena to run through the physical sequences for the Man Overboard program, completely isolated from the main roster.
But beneath my tailored clothes, my heart was hammering a frantic, terrifying rhythm against my ribs. My palms were damp against the leather of the steering wheel. Silas had no idea what he was stepping into. He had no idea that he was walking straight into a closed-door meeting that his own fucking father and uncle would be sitting in on. He didn’t know the entire hierarchy of the United Wrestling Federation was currently gathered in a single room, waiting for the other shoe to drop.
I kept my eyes glued to the highway, my jaw locked so tight, the muscles in my cheeks were jumping. I looked at the silver band gleaming on my left hand, the metal a cool comforting weight against my skin.
“Cal?” Silas’s soft voice cut through the quiet hum of the engine, his eyes looking over at my profile with a sudden, intuitive concern. “You’re quiet today.”
I didn’t look at him. I couldn’t let him see the sheer panic I was hiding. I just reached across the console, my hand finding his knee, squeezing firmly through the denim.
“I’m fine, baby.” I lied smoothly.
