Page 90 of Major Penalty

“Wow.” She looks impressed.

We keep driving.

“Damien’s is next. You’ll know it when you see it.”

She laughs the second it comes into view.

All-black exterior, spikes of concrete, and red lights glowing in the driveway like the house is alive.

“Okay, that one looks like a villain’s hideout.”

“It fits him,” I say with a grin.

We keep going, up a slightly longer, winding drive until mine comes into view.

Black. Tall as hell. But with dark wood and gothic accents, it feels more like a haunted cathedral than a bachelor pad, unlike Damien’s.

She leans forward in her seat, her mouth parting slightly.

I park the Aston Martin in front, kill the engine, and get out before walking around to her side and opening the door.

She steps out, turning in a full circle.

“This is beautiful, Ares,” she says.

I watch her soak it in. She looks small here, but not in a weak way—in aperfectway. Like she was made to walk through this place barefoot with my shirt on and coffee in her hand.

“Why’s yours farther away?” she asks, turning to me with a soft smile.

“I like my privacy.” I shrug.

“Are we breaking into this one, too?” Her smile widens, teasing now.

“You want to break in again, you little punk?” I raise a brow.

“I liked it the last time.” She giggles, already backing away.

As you wish.

I grab her waist, lift her easily over my shoulder, and start carrying her toward the front door while she laughs and kicks in fake protest. I type in the door code one-handed, carry her straight inside, and set her down in the front hall, her feet landing softly on the hardwood.

She spins around, eyes wide and lips parted, like she just walked into something sacred. The lighting is low—dim sconces along the walls, a warm, golden glow spilling from recessed fixtures in the ceiling. Soft shadows, clean lines, dark wood floors, thick rugs, and leather and velvet furniture in deep, moody colors. The fireplace is flickering low, casting the entire space in amber light.

She’s silent for a second, looking around.

“Your home is gorgeous,” she says. “And it’s really cozy.”

“Cozy?” I blink and furrow my brows.

“Yeah.” She nods, stepping further in, running her fingers along the back of the velvet couch. “I mean, from the outside, it looks like there’s a dungeon in the basement.”

“But in here?” she says, spinning again. “It feels lived-in. Like...” she pauses, smiling, tucking a piece of hair behind her ear. “It feels like a warm hug.”

My heart does something I don’t recognize.

A warm hug.

No one’s ever said that about me. Or my house. Or anything I’ve ever owned.

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