《MY TABOO STEP DADDY 》全部章節：第 171 章 - 第 180 章

[TRISTAN'S POV] Five in the morning.The room is still dark, thick with the smell of sex and sweat and Carlton. I can taste him on my tongue—salt and something sweeter underneath, like honey cut with lemon.He's sprawled across the bed like a sacrifice. Naked. Wrecked. Covered in my cum.It's dried on his chest in white streaks. Smeared across his stomach. Pooled in the hollow of his throat like a pearl necklace I painted there myself.His hole is still leaking. I can see it from here—my cum sliding out, tracking down his thigh in slow rivulets.Mine.Every inch of him marked. Claimed. Ruined.My cock stirs again.I should let him sleep. Should give him a few hours to recover before I destroy him again.But the itch under my skin won't settle. The crawling, gnawing thing that's been eating at me since Amanda showed up with tear-streaked cheeks and Yosef's name on her lips.I drag myself out of bed.Every muscle protests. My thighs burn. My lower back aches. Even my jaw is sore from b

[CARLTON'S POV]I wake to cold sheets.My hand reaches across the mattress, searching for warmth that isn't there. The space beside me is empty, the indent in the pillow the only evidence Tristan was ever here at all.My body aches. Good aches. The kind that remind me exactly what we did and how many times and how thoroughly he wrecked me.I sit up, wincing.The room is dark except for moonlight spilling through the open balcony door. Curtains billow in the night breeze, ghostly and pale.I catch movement outside.A silhouette against the railing. Broad shoulders. The orange glow of something burning.I drag myself out of bed, naked and sore and stumbling like a newborn deer. Grab a discarded shirt from the floor—his, judging by how it swallows me—and pull it on.The balcony is cold under my bare feet.Tristan sits in one of the wrought-iron chairs, sprawled like a king on a throne that's seen better days. He's wearing nothing but black boxer briefs, the fabric clinging to his thighs

[TRISTAN'S POV] The warehouse reeks of diesel and old blood.I duck behind a rusted shipping container, shoulders pressed against corroded metal that's probably older than my marriage. Cigarette smoke drifts through the air, thick enough to taste on the back of my tongue.From here I can see everything.Yosef stands in the center circle of light, arms crossed over his chest. His posture reads bored, but I know better. I've known him long enough to catch the slight tension in his jaw, the way his right hand hovers near his holster.Around him, Aurora's men fan out in a loose semicircle. Russians. Built like brick shithouses with scars that tell stories and eyes that have seen too much. They smoke cheap cigarettes and check their weapons with the casual efficiency of men who kill as easily as breathing.The Chinese are opposite. Triad soldiers in expensive suits that can't quite hide the bulk of body armor underneath. Their leader—a thin man with silver threading his hair—gestures with

WEEKS LATER[TRISTAN’S POV] Aurora's study smells like her. Jasmine and ink and that particular cold that clings to women who have never needed warming.I sit behind her desk because someone has to. She left for the Maldives today, a weapons negotiation that required her face and her signature and her particular talent for smiling at men she intends to kill. She trusted me with the Brotherhood's paperwork in her absence, which means she trusts me with her empire, which means I am signing documents at midnight while my daughter sleeps two floors above me and Moscow freezes solid outside the window.I don't mind the work. I prefer it to thinking.The door opens quietly.Yosef closes it behind him. No knock. Yosef never knocks in rooms he considers his, and he considers every room his.He looks well.That is the first thing I notice. Not pale, not weak, no shadows under his eyes from three days of reported fever. He drops into the chair across the desk with the loose ease of a man who h

[TRISTAN’S POV] AURORA’S FUNERAL—MOSCOW, RUSSIA. It rains the way Moscow always rains in grief. Like the city knew before we did.Heavy and colorless, drumming against the black umbrellas, running in cold threads down the necks of men who don't flinch at bullets but stand very still in the rain because there is nothing else to do. Sixteen of them in Armani. Not a single face dry. Not from tears. Just rain.I tell myself that.The coffin is white birchwood with brass handles, her choice, she picked it years ago the way practical women pick things, efficiently and without sentiment. White for Aurora. Everything else in her life was black and iron and blood, so she wanted white at the end. I remember thinking she was being morbid when she told me.I didn't argue.I never argued with her about the things that mattered.Mafioso from four families have come. Sokolov from St. Petersburg, Renner's man from Berlin, two of the Chechen bosses who hated her and respected her in equal measure. T