All Chapters of MY TABOO STEP DADDY : Chapter 121 - Chapter 130

[TRISTAN'S POV]I slam the door shut and settle into the backseat of my Buggatti. No driver. No security. Just us, the night, and the tension crackling between us like a live wire.Bunny sits beside me, one thigh draped over my lap, eyes glazed with lust. He's staring like he's already drunk on me.I grip his hip, breathing ragged. "I said I want to touch you properly.""No." He shakes his head, uncertain. "That… that wasn't the plan."My jaw grinds, the ache in my cock turning unbearable. "You followed me.""No.""Don't pretend." I grab the back of his head. "Even Damon saw through it. Let's—"He tears my grip away. "Fuck?! Kiss again?! Choke me to death this time?!""We're going to die anyway." I rasp, glancing at the bulge straining my pants, then back at him. I must look pathetic. "If I'm not inside you right now, I'll die—and you'll die too, from the heartbreak of being apart. Please, Bunny. Don't take that risk."His eyes water. "I'm still sore from Moscow. I can't—""No." My vo

[DECLAN’S POV]The food burns my tongue, but I don't slow down. Rice. Lamb. Something with spice that makes my eyes water.I shovel it in like I haven't eaten in days.Bolton watches from across the small table, arms folded, brow creased like he's waiting for me to choke."Slow down," he mutters. I ignore him. Take another mouthful.The lamb's overcooked. Doesn't matter. It's real food. The kind you sit down to eat. The kind you forget exists when you're tied to a chair in Moscow, wondering if the next hour's your last.My throat tightens.I reach for the gin, take a long drink. The burns going down. Good. I need that.Bolton shakes his head, tops me off without asking. "Easy.""Yeah."I don't mean it. “Oh man.” He sighs.The house is small. You feel it without trying: Two rooms. One narrow hallway. A sitting room that bleeds into the kitchen. Old couch with a spring poking through the cushion. Telly that probably works when it feels like it. Toys shoved into corners: plastic sold

[TRISTAN'S POV]The rain doesn't just fall. It attacks. It hammers the Bugatti's roof, drowns the gravel road in seconds, turns the lake beside the church into something violent and churning. The wind tears through the trees hard enough that branches crack and scatter across the ground. Everything smells like wet earth and gasoline and something metallic I can't place. Blood, maybe. Or just the storm eating through rust on the car's undercarriage.The front left tire is completely gone, deflated, fucked. I'm crouched in the mud, one knee sinking into cold sludge, breaker bar locked onto a lug nut that refuses to move. Rainwater runs into my mouth, my one good eye, blurs my vision until I can barely see the fucking bolt I'm trying to turn. My hands are numb. My shirt is soaked through, clinging to my chest and back like a second skin.I pull.Nothing."Tristan, what the fuck are you doing?!" Carlton's voice cuts through the storm like a blade.I don't look up."You forgot the pliers

[TRISTAN'S POV]Detectives.I fucking hate detectives.But these three? They scare the shit out of me.They're already leaning against the hood when I step out: long black coats soaked through, fedoras pulled low, shoes too polished for this muddy shithole. They look relaxed, casual, like they're waiting for a bus, not ambushing a man in the middle of nowhere.But their eyes? Their eyes are hunting.I shut the car door. Slow. Deliberate.The Bugatti's engine ticks as it cools, steam curling from under the hood. Burnt rubber hangs thick in the air from the tire I couldn't fix. Rain stopped ten minutes ago but everything's still wet: the ground, the trees, my bare fucking chest.Cold bites into my skin.Behind me, Carlton shifts in his seat. I feel his stare burning holes through the window."Stay in the car," I say without turning."I thought it was 'we' now." His voice cuts through the door, sharp with attitude.My jaw clenches. "Not this, Baby. Bratva business."He moves like he's a

[CARLTON’S POV]Tristan exhales against my neck, thick arms locked around me like iron. His heartbeat slams against my chest: loud, erratic, completely fucking human.Tristan doesn't fear anything. Not bullets, not blood, not death itself. But those two men—Rusev and Seo—did something to him I've never seen before.Suddenly I'm the hunter and he's the prey. Me, Carlton Dickson, standing between the most wanted man on Earth and the world trying to tear him apart.Saying he ruined my life doesn't mean shit anymore. What's the point of hating someone when you'd take a bullet for them? When you'd kill for them? When you're hard just from holding them?His grip tightens, one massive hand splayed across my lower back, the other tangled in my hair. He mutters something in Russian; low, guttural, sounds like a prayer or a curse. I don't know which. Don't care.My fingers are still numb from squeezing that Glock. I can't believe I actually did that. Pulled a gun on two professional killers. F