The morning after the PI incident, the chalet felt different—sharper, more alive, like the house itself had been holding its breath and finally exhaled.
Angel woke early, before the others, body still tender and marked from the night before.
She stood naked in front of the full-length mirror in the master bedroom, tracing the faint bruises on her hips, the bite marks on her breasts, the red handprints that had faded to soft pink on her ass.
She looked… claimed.
Not broken.
Claimed.
She liked it.
But she didn’t like feeling helpless.
She dressed in black leggings and one of Jax’s oversized hoodies—soft, worn, smelling like gun oil and him—then walked barefoot down the hallway to the gym.
The brothers were already there.
Romeo was sharpening a knife—slow, rhythmic strokes against a
