Naeem looked at Sophia like she’d just shifted shape right in front of him. She’d always been his heart—his reckless, headstrong baby sister who moved too fast and never took anything seriously. The one he’d spent his life protecting from the world, never realizing she’d become the woman who didn’t need protecting.
He knew she could handle herself, but he didn’t know she could kill. Now he did.
The betrayal, the heartbreak, the pride he didn’t want to feel but couldn’t swallow down, it was written all over his face. His baby sister had just executed a man in cold blood, and she hadn’t even blinked.
And for the first time, he wasn’t just looking at me differently.
He was looking atallof us differently.
But the anger in his eyes? That was still for me.
And I welcomed it.
It wasn’t just me anymore.
It was Riley. It was Sophia. It was all of us that they had to see, to recognize, to respect.
And though he didn’t say a word, I saw the fury flare behind his eyes. Not because he didn’t respect the power we held, but because he couldn’t control it.
And that? That scared him more than anything.
I might be weak for my man, my parents may have broken me in ways I’m still trying to put back together, and Dallas might’ve damn near shattered my spirit—but those days were long fucking gone.
Chapter 7
Cut Me Deep
Tatum
By the time we got home, I wasn’t just fuming, I was raging mad. I stepped out of the car without waiting for Naeem or the driver to open my door and went straight inside, storming through the house like a Tasmanian Devil. I didn’t bother taking off my heels by the door. I needed space, but more than that, I needed to feel like I still had control over something, anything.
I made it halfway across the living room before I stopped, shoulders tightening under the weight I’d tried to keep hidden all day, hands clenched at my sides. I hadn’t said a word the entire ride back, mostly because I didn’t trust myself to speak without unraveling.
The truth was, I was still shaking inside. That meeting had gutted me in a way I didn’t want to admit. I’d walked in knowing I wasn’t one of them, but I hadn’t expected the coldness or the calculation in their eyes. These men had built their loyalty in back rooms, in blood and silence and brotherhood. Theydidn’t respect what they didn’t understand, and they damn sure didn’t respectme—yet.
I hadn’t grown up learning how to talk like them, fight like them, intimidate and dismiss like they did with ease. I didn’t have the benefit of shared battles or broken ribs from wars we’d fought side by side. All I had was my name and the lessons my father taught me when we were behind closed doors.
Standing at the head of that table had been like walking onto a stage blindfolded with no script, no direction, just a room full of waiting eyes daring me to fail, and I almost did because every time I tried to speak, Naeem was there undermining without even meaning to. And maybe that was what made it worse—he thought he was helping. But he wasn’t. He was suffocating me in front of the very people I needed to command.
I heard the door click shut behind me, but I didn’t turn around.
“You made me look weak.”
“No. What I did was make sure they didn’t chew you up and spit you out.”
I turned, slowly. “No, you made it look like I needed help. Like I wasn’t prepared. Every time I opened my mouth, you had something to say before I could even get the words out.”
He moved toward me, not fast, but with that quiet confidence that made my blood pressure spike. “That’s because youweren’tready for what they were about to throw at you.”
I folded my arms. “So you decided to run the meeting for me?”
“No,” he said, voice low but direct. “I decided not to let you drown.”
His eyes locked on mine, and for a second, I hated how steady he looked. Like nothing I said touched him. Like my frustration, my pain, thetremblebehind my words—all of it wasbackground noise to a man who only responded to war, not emotion.
He wasn’t hearing me, not really, and that shit burned the most.
I stood there, trying to make him understand something he didn’t even seem willing to see: that I didn’t want a husband who needed me to lose just so he could swoop in and save me. I didn’t want a man who saw my moments of silence as weakness or my processing as incompetence. I didn’t want a marriage that felt like a constant battle for control, where love was measured in strategy and respect was only earned through performance.
