Work Text:
The first time Simon Riley killed for Johnny MacTavish, Johnny had been twenty-three years old and wearing a silver watch worth more than most men made in a year.
The second time had been easier.
By the tenth, Simon had stopped pretending there was any version of his life that didn’t end with blood on his hands and Johnny’s voice in his ear.
Now, three years later, the city called Johnny Boss with fear stitched into every syllable. Simon called him Johnny only when they were alone.
Tonight, the office above The Chapel smelled like gunpowder and expensive scotch.
Simon sat on the floor beside Johnny’s chair, broad shoulders resting against the side of it, one knee bent while blood dried dark across the bandages around his ribs. His white tank clung damply to sweat and crimson where the stitches had partially reopened.
Johnny lounged above him like a king on a throne. One arm draped lazily over the chair. Dress shirt, as usual, rolled to the elbows and his tie long abandoned somewhere in the office hours ago. His fingers toyed absently with the leather collar circling Simon’s throat before sliding higher, carding slowly through the longer strands of blond hair at the crown of Simon’s head.
Not tight or cruel—not this time. Ownership didn’t require force anymore.
Simon’s eyes drifted shut for half a second at the touch before reopening immediately—Johnny noticed.
The room was dim except for the desk lamp and the city lights pouring through the windows behind them. From downstairs came muffled music and distant laughter. The club was still running. Bodies still dancing. Money still changing hands.
Nobody downstairs knew there had been an assassination attempt less than an hour ago.
Nobody except the men currently cleaning blood out of the elevator.
Johnny clicked his tongue softly. “Ye’ll tear the stitches.”
Simon tipped his head back against the chair. “Not fatal.”
“Aye, well. Annoyin’, though.”
Johnny’s hand slid from Simon’s hair to his jaw, rough thumb brushing dried blood near the corner of his mouth. The touch looked almost gentle, but Simon knew better than to mistake gentleness for softness too.
“Ye took a bullet for me tonight,” Johnny said quietly.
“Part of the job.”
“That what ye think this is?” Simon’s eyes flicked upward.
Johnny was watching him with that dangerous stillness he got when emotions ran too deep beneath the surface. Calm on top. Violence underneath. Simon had seen men die for misunderstanding that look.
“Job’s changed a bit from bodyguard work,” Johnny continued. “Unless ye plan on tellin’ me everyone else gets to bleed on my floors too.”
“You’d charge them cleaning fees.”
That earned him a sharp grin.
“There he is.” Johnny leaned forward slightly then, fingers slipping back into Simon’s hair again, dragging through the sweat-damp strands slower this time. His knuckles brushed the shell of Simon’s ear before settling briefly at the back of his neck.
The power in the gesture should have felt humiliating. Instead, Simon stayed perfectly still for it. Trusted it. That was the dangerous part.
Johnny studied the bruise blooming along Simon’s throat where someone had tried to strangle him during the fight on the street. His expression darkened immediately once more.
“Bastard,” Johnny muttered, fingertips still buried loosely in Simon’s hair.
“You’re staring.”
“Can ye blame me?”
Simon finally looked away first.
Outside the office windows, rain streaked across the skyline in silver lines. The city stretched endless beneath them—clubs, docks, politicians, cops, half the damn state in Johnny’s pocket.
All of it built atop fear. And Simon. Johnny’s empire stood because Simon made people afraid to touch him.
The underworld had names for Riley: The Ghost, The Hound, MacTavish’s monster. Simon had heard all of them and none bothered him because every whispered story missed the truth entirely.
The truly terrifying thing about Simon Riley wasn’t how violently he could kill—it was how willingly he would kneel.
A knock sounded at the office door, but neither of them moved immediately. Johnny’s fingers remained threaded through Simon’s hair another second before finally withdrawing. Then he sighed. “Come in.”
Gaz stepped inside first, eyes immediately clocking Simon bleeding on the floor before flicking toward Johnny.
“Cleanup’s handled,” Gaz said carefully. “Couple survivors are asking for terms.”
Johnny hummed. Simon felt the absence of touch immediately. Cold.
“Send them upstairs,” Johnny said. “Five minutes.”
Gaz hesitated. His gaze dipped briefly toward the collar around Simon’s throat. Then away again, just as quickly disregarding it.
When the door shut, silence returned. Johnny stood from the chair at last, rolling his sleeves higher before walking toward the liquor cart. The movement forced Simon to look upward from the floor to follow him instinctively.
Johnny noticed that too—he always noticed.
“C’mere,” Johnny said softly. Simon rose immediately despite the pain in his side and ribs. Six-foot-four of scar tissue, muscle, and terrifying reputation crossing the room the second Johnny called.
The imbalance of it should have been absurd.
Instead, it felt natural enough to make Simon uneasy sometimes.
Johnny poured whiskey into two glasses before handing one over. Simon took it carefully with his left hand.
Johnny’s eyes narrowed. “Yer hand shakin’?”
“Adrenaline crash.”
“Sit.” Simon stared at him for half a second and the obeyed. Johnny leaned back against the desk while Simon settled onto the couch across from him this time, broad legs spread slightly, glass hanging loose between scarred fingers. Exhaustion dragged at the corners of his posture now that the danger had passed.
Johnny watched him openly. Possessively. Like Simon belonged to him. Maybe he did.
“Ye scared me tonight,” Johnny admitted suddenly and Simon went still. Johnny laughed once under his breath at the expression that crossed his face.
“Aye, that got yer attention.”
“You don’t scare easy.”
“No,” Johnny agreed. “But watchin’ ye hit the ground tends to ruin my evenin’ unless it’s me that put ye there.”
Simon looked down at the amber liquid in his glass. For a moment neither spoke. Then quietly: “You should’ve let me finish clearing the street before you came out of the car.”
Johnny barked a laugh. “And let ye have all the fun?”
“You’re the boss.”
“And yer my bodyguard.” Johnny stepped closer again until he stood directly in front of Simon, close enough that Simon had to tilt his head slightly upward from the couch to keep eye contact. There it was again. Power.
Not loud or forced-just absolute.
Johnny took the whiskey glass from Simon’s hand and set it aside before placing one hand along Simon’s jaw while the other slid back into his hair once more, fingers combing slowly through the strands at the nape of his neck. Simon inhaled once, sharp and controlled.
“Ye know wha’ the difference is?” Johnny murmured and Simon’s pulse kicked hard beneath bruised skin.
“What?”
Johnny’s expression softened into something infinitely more dangerous than anger.
“If somebody puts a bullet in me,” he said quietly, “the empire survives.” His fingers tightened gently in Simon’s hair, tipping his head back just enough to force Simon’s gaze fully onto him.
“But if I lose ye?” The words hung between them. Heavy. Honest. Johnny leaned down until their foreheads touched. “The whole bloody thing burns.”
Simon had spent most of his life being feared. As a soldier. As a killer. As the shadow standing behind Johnny MacTavish with blood on his hands and dead-eyed patience in his stare. Fear made sense to him.
This? This did not.
Johnny stayed close, forehead pressed to Simon’s, fingers still tangled in his hair at the nape of his neck—not forcing or controlling, but simply holding—and somehow that was worse.
“The whole bloody thing burns.”
Simon’s throat worked once and for a long moment neither of them moved. The city lights spilled gold across Johnny’s face, catching the sharp edges of him—the scar near his chin, the exhaustion beneath his eyes, the terrifying sincerity sitting unguarded between them.
Johnny never handed people weapons against him.
Yet here he was anyway.
Simon finally exhaled slowly through his nose. “That’s a dangerous thing to admit.”
“Aye.” Johnny’s mouth curved faintly. “Good thing Ah like danger.”
“You should like self-preservation more.”
Johnny huffed a quiet laugh against the space between them. “Bit hypocritical comin’ from the man who took a bullet for me tonight.”
“That’s my job.”
“There ye go again.” Johnny leaned back just enough to look at him properly, though his hand remained buried in Simon’s hair. His thumb brushed once against the base of Simon’s skull, slow and absent-minded, like he couldn’t stop touching him now that he’d started.
Simon sat motionless beneath it. Not because he had to. Because he wanted to. That realization settled ugly and warm somewhere beneath his ribs.
Johnny watched him carefully. “Ye know what everybody downstairs thinks?”
“That you’re arrogant?”
“Apart from that.”
Simon’s eyes narrowed slightly and Johnny grinned.
“They think ye’d kill anybody that touches me.”
“I would.”
“Mm. See? But nobody ever asks the more interestin’ question.”
“And what’s that?”
Johnny’s fingers curled slightly in his hair. “What happens if somebody touches ye.”
Simon went very still. Johnny’s expression changed instantly when he noticed it—that sharp intuition of his zeroing in on the reaction like a blade finding a gap in armor.
“There it is,” Johnny murmured.
“Drop it.”
“Nae”
“Johnny.”
“Ye think Ah don’t see it?” The words stayed soft. “Every time somebody gets too close. Every time one of the lads grabs yer shoulder and ye nearly put them through a wall on instinct.”
Simon’s jaw tightened. “That’s different.”
“Aye,” Johnny agreed quietly. “It is.”
Because Simon could handle violence. Could handle pain. Could handle being used as a weapon. But tenderness? Tenderness dug beneath the skin and stayed there.
Johnny knew that better than anyone. The bastard weaponized affection with terrifying precision. Another knock hit the office door. Three short taps this time. Impatient.
Johnny didn’t look away from Simon. “Ignore it.”
“They’re waiting.”
“Aye. They can keep waitin’.”
Simon almost smiled despite himself. “You’re insufferable.”
“And yet here ye are.” Johnny’s hand finally slid from Simon’s hair, dragging down the side of his neck before disappearing entirely. The loss of contact felt immediate—Simon hated that.
Johnny stepped back from the couch with a quiet sigh and adjusted the cuffs of his rolled sleeves again. The mask settled back into place piece by piece—the charming crime lord, the untouchable king sitting atop a city built on bribes and bodies.
Only Simon ever got to see the man underneath. Only Simon ever saw how tired he looked after shootings. How quiet he became after ordering executions. How his hands shook slightly after Simon got hurt.
Johnny moved toward the desk, then paused halfway there. Without turning around, he asked quietly, “How bad’s the pain?”
Simon blinked once. The question caught him more off guard than the confession had.
“Manageable.”
“That bad, then.”
“I’ve had worse.”
Johnny looked back over his shoulder, blue eyes sharp. “That’s no’ the same thing.”
Silence stretched. Then Simon rose carefully from the couch, hiding the brief stiffness in his movement as best he could. Johnny noticed anyway, gaze dropping immediately to the blood spotting through the bandages beneath Simon’s tank. A muscle feathered in Johnny’s jaw.
“Sit back down.”
“Need to stand beside you.”
“The meetin’ hasn’t started yet.”
“And it will.”
Johnny stared at him for a long moment before muttering something low in Gaelic under his breath. Simon caught exactly one word. Stubborn.
“Johnny—”
“Shut up a minute.” The order came without heat. Johnny crossed the room again, this time stopping close enough that Simon could smell smoke and whisky clinging to his clothes. Then, without ceremony, Johnny hooked his fingers beneath the hem of Simon’s bloodied tank top and pushed it upward enough to expose the bandaging around his ribs.
Simon went rigid automatically. Not from fear, but instinct.
Johnny’s eyes flicked up immediately. “Easy.” The word hit harder than it should have. Simon forced himself still while Johnny inspected the wound with infuriating gentleness.
“Christ.” Johnny muttered.
“I said it wasn’t fatal.”
“Aye, and Ah’m sayin’ yer full of shite.” Johnny’s fingertips brushed carefully along uninjured skin near the bandage, grounding more than examining now.
Simon looked down at him. At the crime boss bent slightly in front of him in a thousand-dollar suit with blood on his cuffs because he was checking wounds himself instead of calling a medic. Power dynamics were strange like this.
The city thought Johnny owned Simon because Simon obeyed him without hesitation. But nobody downstairs would ever understand this part. The way Johnny touched him like something precious. The way Simon would burn entire organizations to the ground over a bruise on Johnny’s throat. The way both of them had long since stopped pretending this was only loyalty.
Johnny refastened the loosened bandage with surprisingly practiced hands before flattening his palm briefly against Simon’s abdomen, his gaze going distant and his focus inward.
EARLIER THAT EVENING
The night started wrong.
Simon knew it before the first gun was drawn. Maybe it was the silence in Johnny’s convoy. Maybe it was the fact that Gaz kept checking the mirrors like he expected headlights that never appeared. Or maybe it was simply instinct—that old animal thing inside Simon that had kept him alive through warzones and back alleys and the kind of work men whispered about after too many drinks.
Danger. Close.
Johnny sat beside him in the back of the armored SUV, one ankle crossed over the opposite knee while he skimmed through financial reports on a tablet like they weren’t on the way to threaten a councilman into signing over port access. Calm. Relaxed. Beautifully unconcerned.
Simon hated when he got like this.
“You’re glarin’ again,” Johnny muttered without looking up.
“I’m thinking.”
“That’s usually worse.”
Simon ignored him, eyes fixed through the tinted windows. Rain hammered against the city in silver sheets. Neon signs blurred past in streaks of blue and red. Midnight traffic crawled around them. Too normal.
That was the problem.
Johnny finally looked up from the tablet, sharp blue eyes catching on Simon’s expression instantly. “What?”
“Something’s off.”
Johnny studied him for half a second longer before setting the tablet aside immediately. No dismissal. No teasing. That was another dangerous thing about Johnny MacTavish: he trusted Simon’s instincts more than his own.
“Gaz,” Johnny called toward the front.
“Yeah, boss?”
“Reroute.”
The response came instantly. “Already did.”
Simon’s stomach tightened. Gaz only preempted orders when he was nervous too. Johnny noticed too, and the atmosphere inside the SUV shifted subtly after that. Quiet sharpening into tension. The men in the second vehicle closing distance behind them.
Johnny leaned back slightly, gaze drifting toward the rain-streaked window. “Who’s stupid enough tae try it?”
“Marino’s desperate,” Simon said.
“He’s no’ suicidal.”
“No,” Simon agreed. “Which means somebody’s backing him.”
Johnny’s jaw flexed once. Then—
Headlights. Fast. Simon turned sharply just as a black sedan blew through the intersection against traffic.
“Down!!”
Johnny moved instantly at the snarl in Simon’s
voice. The impact hit a second later. Metal screamed. The SUV spun hard enough that glass exploded inward in glittering shards. Gunfire cracked through the rain almost immediately. Simon shoved Johnny downward across the seat as bullets tore through the windows.
“Move!” Gaz shouted from the front. The driver slammed the accelerator. Too late. Another vehicle clipped them broadside. The SUV crashed into a light pole with bone-rattling force.
Everything blurred violently. For one disorienting second all Simon could hear was ringing. Then Johnny’s hand gripped his forearm hard.
“Simon.”
Alive. Simon dragged himself upright instantly despite the ache ripping through his shoulder. Outside, shadows moved through the rain. Multiple shooters. Organized. Definitely not Marino acting alone.
“Stay behind me,” Simon ordered.
Johnny looked offended by the suggestion. “Simon—”
“Stay. Behind. Me.” Something in Simon’s face must have settled the argument because Johnny went still.
Gunfire erupted again.
Simon exited the SUV first. Violence followed naturally. One man died before Simon’s shoes hit the pavement. Another dropped with a knife through his throat before he managed to aim properly. Rain mixed with blood beneath Simon’s boots while screams echoed across the empty street. Professional. Fast. Brutal.
The attackers had expected bodyguards. They had not expected Simon Riley.
Johnny emerged from the vehicle behind him with a pistol already drawn.
Simon caught movement to the left just before someone slammed into him hard enough to drive him against the side of the SUV.
A thick forearm crushed across his throat instantly. Simon snarled, grabbing the attacker’s wrist as the man shoved him harder into the metal frame. Pressure cut off his air immediately. The attacker was big. Strong. Trained enough to use leverage instead of brute force.
“Hold him!” someone shouted nearby. Simon’s vision flashed white at the edges as fingers dug brutally into his throat. Wrong move. The panic never came. It had been beaten out of him years ago.
Simon drove a knife upward beneath the man’s ribs once. Twice. Three times. Hot blood spilled across his hands. Still the grip tightened. Bruising pressure ground against his windpipe hard enough that Simon felt something strain painfully beneath the skin and his vision blacked out momentarily.
Then a gunshot cracked beside his ear. The attacker jerked violently before collapsing away from him. Johnny stood there with smoke curling from the barrel of his pistol and murder written plain across his face.
“Simon.”
Simon coughed hard once, dragging air back into his lungs. “I’m fine.” His voice came out rougher than normal.
Another car screeched around the corner. Friendly this time. Price and two more men spilled out firing immediately.
The remaining attackers broke formation and began to flee Simon pushed himself upright fully despite the burning ache in his throat and shoulder. His vision blurred briefly before stabilizing through sheer stubbornness.
Johnny stepped close instantly, one hand catching Simon by the jaw.
“Look at me.”
Simon did and Johnny’s thumb brushed once against the bruising fingerprints spreading along his neck. The touch was feather-light. His expression was not.
“Still standing.” Simon responded to the unspoken words.
As if summoned by the statement, movement flashed across the rooftop again. Simon turned sharply just in time to see the sniper.
“Down!”
Johnny fired at the same moment Simon tackled him sideways. The bullet meant for Johnny slammed into Simon instead. White hot agony exploded through his ribs and side as he hit the pavement hard enough to blacken his vision for a second.
Johnny’s expression changed instantly. Not fear. Worse. Rage. The sniper died before Simon fully processed the next three gunshots.
“Simon.”
“I’m fine.”
A blatant lie this time. Blood spread hot beneath Simon’s soaked shirt already. Johnny grabbed his arm hard enough to bruise. “Yer hit.”
“Need to move.” Rain drenched both of them completely now. Blood ran pink down Simon’s side onto the pavement. Sirens wailed faintly somewhere in the distance. Too exposed. Too public.
Gaz approached fast, breathing hard. “We cleared two vehicles. One escaped.”
“Find out who financed this,” Johnny said coldly. There it was. The Boss. Every trace of emotion vanished beneath ice. But his hand never left Simon.
Price glanced between them once before saying carefully, “We need to get him patched up.”
“I’m functional.”
“You’re leaking,” Gaz snapped.
Simon ignored him, gaze still tracking rooftops automatically. Johnny caught his jaw suddenly, forcing Simon to look at him directly again.
“You stay conscious for me,” Johnny said quietly. Not an order. Something else. Simon nodded once.
That seemed to ease something ugly in Johnny’s expression.
“Get us back to the Chapel,” Johnny ordered. The ride there blurred strangely. Simon remembered pieces of it. Johnny sitting too close beside him. Pressure against the wound. Gaz swearing into a phone. Blood soaking steadily through Simon’s fingers no matter how hard he pressed. At some point Johnny dragged Simon’s hand away to inspect the damage himself and went frighteningly silent afterward. Then his gaze caught the bruising around Simon’s throat again. The silence somehow got worse. Simon preferred yelling. Yelling meant Johnny wasn’t angry enough to kill someone.
By the time they reached the private garage beneath The Chapel, Simon’s body had started shivering despite the warmth. Shock. Annoying. He climbed out anyway and nearly collapsed immediately. Johnny caught him before he hit the concrete, strong hands bracing around his waist.
“Easy.”
“I’m upright.”
“Debatable.”
Simon would have argued if what he presumed to be at least one broken rib didn’t make breathing suddenly feel like swallowing broken glass. The elevator ride upstairs felt endless. Nobody spoke.
Johnny stood directly beside him the entire time, one hand pressed flat against Simon’s side to slow the bleeding while the other occasionally drifted upward, fingertips brushing Simon’s bruised throat like he needed to reassure himself Simon was still breathing.
The moment the elevator doors opened to the private office floor, movement started immediately. A medic was already waiting beside the office seating area with supplies spread across the coffee table. Young. Nervous. Smart enough not to speak first.
Gaz had clearly called ahead during the drive.
“Lock the club down,” Johnny ordered as they entered. Men scattered instantly. Simon made it three steps into the office before the adrenaline finally gave out beneath him. His knees hit first. Johnny caught him again before he fully collapsed.
“Simon.”
“I’m fine.”
“Ye are absolutely no’ fine.”
The medic approached carefully. “Sir, I need to—” Johnny looked at him. Just looked. The poor bastard nearly froze on the spot. Then Simon coughed sharply and blood spotted onto his knuckles. That broke the tension fast.
“Right,” the medic muttered, recovering. “Okay.”
Simon let Johnny guide him downward onto the oversized chair near the windows. Too exhausted to fight the indignity of it now. One arm draped over the seat automatically as Simon settled heavily into the chair and Johnny sat immediately on the arm of the seat.
One hand settled against the back of Simon’s neck while the medic knelt beside them and carefully peeled back the blood-soaked shirt. The wound looked ugly.
“Bullet passed through clean,” the medic said quickly, probably because Johnny’s stare was beginning to resemble a death threat. “No major organ damage from what I can see.”
“Fix it,” Johnny said.
The medic worked fast after that. Scissors cutting fabric. Alcohol against torn skin. Needle through flesh. Simon barely reacted beyond a tightening jaw when the stitches started.
Johnny noticed anyway. His hand slid upward from the back of Simon’s neck into his hair, fingers carding slowly through the damp blond strands while the medic worked. Grounding him.
Simon’s eyes drifted shut briefly despite himself and Johnny’s thumb brushed once behind Simon’s ear before his gaze dropped again to the bruises marring Simon’s throat.
Dangerous stillness returned instantly.
“Did he choke ye unconscious?” Johnny asked quietly.
The medic nearly fumbled the needle.
Simon opened his eyes again. “No.”
“How long.”
“Doesn’t matter.”
Johnny’s fingers tightened slightly in his hair.
“How long, Simon.”
“Few seconds.”
Johnny went silent. That was never good. The medic stitched faster. Smart man. Finally, after what felt like an eternity beneath Johnny’s watchful stare, the last bandage was secured.
“All done,” the medic said carefully.
Johnny didn’t answer immediately. He was still looking at the bruises around Simon’s throat with an expression that promised unimaginable violence. Then, without looking away from Simon, Johnny spoke. “Get out.”
The medic did not hesitate and the office door shut quickly behind him. Heavy silence followed.
Simon stayed where he was on Johnny’s chair, breathing slow through the ache in his ribs while rain battered the windows overlooking the city. Somewhere far below, bass still pulsed through The Chapel. The club carried on because it had to.
But up here, the atmosphere had shifted into something quieter. Sharper. Johnny remained seated above him, one hand still buried in Simon’s damp hair while the other clenched in his lap hard enough that his knuckles had gone pale.
Simon knew that look. Knew exactly how dangerous Johnny became when rage went cold instead of loud.
“The survivors?” Simon asked eventually, voice rough from the bruising around his throat and the strain in his ribs. Johnny didn’t answer immediately. That alone was answer enough. “Johnny.”
“Aye?”
“Don’t.”
That finally got Johnny to look down at him. Blue eyes. Exhausted. Furious.
“Dinnae what?”
“Turn this city inside out over bruises.”
Johnny’s jaw flexed. “He put hands—ye were *shot*, Simon.”
“They’re dead.”
“Aye, *those* two are.” Johnny’s fingers slid slowly through Simon’s hair again before tightening briefly at the nape of his neck. “Means somebody else gave the order.”
Simon watched him carefully.
“You’re spiraling.”
“I’m plannin’.”
“Same thing with better tailoring.”
That earned him the ghost of a smile. Brief and gone again almost instantly. Johnny leaned forward then, elbow braced on his knee while keeping Simon caught loosely beneath his hand. Close enough now that Simon could smell the smoke clinging to Johnny’s clothes.
“Ye stopped breathin’ for a second.” Simon stilled and Johnny’s voice dropped quieter. “On the street.”
Ah. That. Simon looked away first, gaze settling on the rain-streaked windows instead of Johnny’s face.
“It wasn’t long.”
“Long enough.” The words cracked sharper than intended. Johnny exhaled slowly through his nose afterward like he regretted the edge in his tone.
Simon felt the shift immediately when Johnny’s grip softened again.
“Look at me.” Simon obeyed automatically. Johnny’s hand shifted from his nape, thumb brushing across the bruise darkening beneath Simon’s jaw.
“Ye know what Ah thought?” Johnny asked quietly.
Simon didn’t answer.
“For one second there, Ah thought somebody had finally found a way to take ye from me.”
Something in Simon’s chest twisted painfully at the honesty in that. Because Johnny rarely said things outright. Not like this. Not unguarded. Simon reached up before thinking and caught Johnny’s wrist gently. The movement seemed to surprise both of them.
“I’m here,” Simon said.
Johnny stared at him for a long moment. Then suddenly stood and stepped back, hand dropping from Simon as if scorched. The loss of warmth and touch hit immediately.
Simon frowned slightly as Johnny crossed toward the liquor cart in the corner of the office. He poured two fingers of whisky into a glass, tossed it back in one swallow, then braced both hands against the counter. Silent. Thinking. That was worse than anger.
Simon pushed himself upright and to his feet carefully despite the protest from his ribs and side. The room tilted slightly before stabilizing and Johnny noticed without turning around.
“Sit back down.”
“I’m not fragile.” Simon crossed the room anyway. Slowly. By the time he stopped behind Johnny, the rain outside had intensified enough to blur the skyline completely. Reflected city lights painted gold across the glass and over Johnny’s tense shoulders.
For a moment neither spoke.
Then Simon said quietly, “You’re angry.”
Johnny glanced at him sideways. “Very observant.”
“At me.” That earned him Johnny’s full attention.
“Simon.”
“You’re angry because I got hurt.”
“I’m angry because ye nearly died.”
“Occupational hazard.”
Johnny moved suddenly then. Fast enough to catch Simon off guard despite years of training. One second there was space between them. The next Johnny had Simon backed lightly against the edge of the desk, one hand planted beside his hip while the other caught the front of Simon’s shirt. Not violent. Never truly violent with him. But commanding enough that Simon’s pulse kicked once hard anyway.
“Ye know what everybody thinks?” Johnny asked softly.
Simon held his gaze. “That you’re terrifying.”
“Nae.” Johnny stepped closer. “They think Ah own ye.” Simon went very still and Johnny’s eyes searched his face carefully. “And maybe they’re right,” Johnny murmured. “Maybe Ah do.”
The words should have felt dangerous. Instead they settled low and warm somewhere beneath Simon’s ribs. Johnny seemed to notice that too. His gaze darkened instantly.
“Christ,” Johnny muttered, almost to himself. Simon could have stepped away. Johnny would have let him. That was the thing nobody understood. The power between them only worked because Simon handed it over willingly.
And Johnny treated that trust like something sacred.
Johnny’s fingers loosened against Simon’s shirt slowly. Then his eyes flicked toward the cabinet near the bookshelf. Simon followed the look automatically. Inside that cabinet was a locked box. Inside the box—
“Johnny.” Low warning this time. Johnny leaned closer instead, forehead nearly brushing Simon’s.
“Tell me nae,” he said quietly. Simon’s throat tightened. Not from fear. Never fear.
The collar had started as a joke once. Months ago after an underground fight ring incident where Simon had nearly bitten through a man’s ear for grabbing Johnny unexpectedly.
Christ, Riley, Johnny had laughed afterward, blood on his knuckles and amusement in his eyes. Should put ye on a leash.
The joke had become something else slowly. Private. Intimate. A symbol nobody else fully understood. Not ownership. Trust.
Johnny only used it when Simon was hurt badly enough or wound up so much that the violence inside him still hadn’t settled. Grounding him. Keeping him close.
Simon looked at Johnny for a long moment now. Then deliberately tipped his head slightly to the side. Permission. Johnny’s breath caught almost imperceptibly. There it was again. That imbalance.
The terrifying thing about Simon Riley was never that he obeyed. It was that he chose to.
Johnny stepped away immediately after, crossing toward the cabinet. He unlocked it carefully before returning with the black leather collar resting across one palm. Simple. Expensive. Silver hardware gleaming softly beneath the office lights.
Simon’s pulse slowed the moment he saw it.
Johnny stopped directly in front of him again.
“Still with me?” he asked quietly. Always that question. Always a choice.
Simon held his gaze. “Yes.”
Johnny reached up slowly, giving Simon every opportunity to pull away. Then careful fingers brushed against the bruises on Simon’s throat while positioning the leather around his neck. The touch gentled immediately when Simon inhaled sharply through the soreness.
“Sorry,” Johnny murmured and Simon shook his head once. The buckle clicked softly into place. Something in Simon’s body loosened almost instantly afterward. Johnny watched happen and expression softened into something devastatingly fond.
“There we are,” he whispered and Simon exhaled slowly.
Johnny’s hand lingered at the collar for another moment before guiding him back toward the chair near the windows. No force. No pulling. Just a hand resting warm at the back of Simon’s neck.
Simon followed willingly. By the time Johnny sat again, Simon had already slowly lowered himself onto the floor beside the chair automatically, broad shoulders settling against Johnny’s leg while exhaustion and pain finally dragged heavily at his body.
Johnny immediately carded his fingers through Simon’s hair again. Steady. Possessive. Grounding.
Downstairs, the empire kept moving. Men hunted names. Enemies disappeared.
The city feared Johnny MacTavish because he was ruthless enough to burn it down. But here, in the quiet of the office with Simon resting against his knee and Johnny’s fingers moving slowly through his hair, the truth was much simpler.
Johnny only ever felt powerful when Simon stayed alive long enough to come back to him.
BACK TO PRESENT
“Yer stayin’ upstairs after the meetin’.”
“No.”
Johnny looked up slowly. Simon knew that look. Boss look. Dangerous look.
“Try again,” Johnny said pleasantly.
Simon crossed his arms. “Need to finish security.”
“Ye got shot.”
“Happens.”
“Ye collapsed.”
“Briefly.”
Johnny stood to full height again, close enough now that Simon had to tilt his chin slightly downward to maintain eye contact.
“Simon.” Low warning.
Simon stared back evenly. “Johnny.”
For one suspended second, the room held its breath around them. Then Johnny actually laughed, disbelieving, warm and exhausted all at once.
“Christ, Ah really did fall for the only man in this city who argues with me while actively bleeding out.”
The words settled into the room with startling weight. Not because Simon hadn’t known. He had. Long before this moment. Long before the collar. Before Johnny’s hands in his hair and whiskey shared in quiet offices after bloodshed. Before the city started calling Simon Riley the monster at Johnny MacTavish’s side.
Simon had known the exact shape of this thing growing between them. But Johnny had finally said it aloud. Not possession. Not loyalty. Not ownership. Something infinitely worse.
Simon stared at him in silence. Johnny’s grin faded first. Not entirely, but enough for something rawer to show through around the edges. He looked suddenly aware of what he’d admitted. Not embarrassed—Johnny MacTavish didn’t embarrass easily—but exposed. Which was rarer and far more dangerous.
Outside the office, bass still pulsed through the club below. Somewhere downstairs, men were waiting for permission to beg for their lives. Up here, the most feared man in the city stood too close with blood on his sleeves and honesty in his mouth.
Simon’s pulse felt uneven suddenly. Johnny noticed that too.
“Well,” Johnny said after a beat, voice lighter than the look in his eyes, “that’s either scared ye speechless or finally knocked enough sense into ye.”
Simon’s jaw flexed once. “You picked a bad time to say that.”
“Aye, probably.”
“You’ve got a meeting.”
“Mm.”
“And there’s blood on the floor.”
Johnny glanced down briefly. “There usually is.”
Despite himself, Simon huffed a quiet breath that almost resembled a laugh. Johnny’s expression softened instantly at the sound.
There it is again. That look. Like Johnny collected every rare reaction Simon gave him and stored them somewhere valuable. Simon hated how much it affected him.
“You mean it?” he asked finally.
Johnny went still. Not performative stillness or the cool composure he wore during negotiations and executions—real stillness.
“Aye,” Johnny answered simply. No joke after it.
No smirk. Just truth.
Simon looked away first. His gaze drifted toward the rain-streaked windows overlooking the city. The skyline blurred gold and silver through the glass, endless and sprawling beneath them. He’d spent years believing he didn’t belong anywhere except beside violence.
Then Johnny had handed him a place at his side like it was the easiest thing in the world.
“You shouldn’t,” Simon said quietly.
Johnny sighed immediately, like he’d expected that answer.
“I’m serious.”
“So am Ah.”
“You get attached to the wrong thing in this life, it gets used against you.”
Johnny stepped closer again. Close enough that Simon could feel the warmth coming off him.
“Simon,” Johnny said softly, “people have been tryin’ tae use ye against me for years.”
“That’s different.”
“How?”
“Because I can survive it.”
Johnny’s eyes sharpened instantly at that. The wrong thing to say. Simon realized it too late. Johnny’s hand caught his jaw again, firm enough to hold his attention but not enough to hurt. His thumb pressed briefly against the stubble along Simon’s cheek.
“That’s no’ the goal,” Johnny said quietly. Simon held his gaze. “Ye understand me?”
The power in Johnny’s voice lived in restraint. He didn’t need to shout. Simon’s shoulders eased by instinct anyway.
“Yeah,” he muttered. Johnny studied him another second before his fingers slid upward, carding once more through Simon’s hair. Slower this time. Thoughtful.
Simon closed his eyes briefly before he could stop himself. Johnny went very still at the reaction. When Simon opened his eyes again, Johnny was looking at him like he’d just been handed something sacred.
“Well,” Johnny murmured softly, “that’s unfairly adorable.”
Simon deadpanned immediately. “Take that back.”
“No chance.”
“Johnny.”
The grin that spread across Johnny’s face this time was brighter than before. Real enough to carve years off him.
Then someone knocked again. Harder now. Gaz’s voice carried faintly through the door. “Boss?”
Johnny didn’t look away from Simon. “Wha’?”
“Your guests are getting nervous.”
“Good.”
Simon shook his head faintly. Johnny ignored that entirely. “Five more minutes,” he called.
“You already said five minutes ten minutes ago.”
“Aye, and now Ah’m sayin’ another five.”
Muffled silence. Then Gaz, with the exhausted tone of a man deeply used to this nonsense. “Right. Five more minutes.” Footsteps retreated down the hall and Johnny smirked.
The smile faded from Johnny’s face slower this time, leaving something quieter behind. He was still close enough that Simon could feel his breath. Neither moved away. Finally Johnny spoke again, voice low.
“Tell me tae stop.”
Simon frowned slightly. “What?”
“This.” Johnny’s fingers brushed through his hair once more. “Tell me ye don’t want it and Ah stop. No argument. No guilt.”
Simon stared at him. Johnny meant it. That was the problem. Men like Johnny weren’t supposed to ask. Yet he always did with Simon. Even now. Especially now.
Simon looked at the hand in his hair. At the blood drying across Johnny’s knuckles. At the exhaustion he tried so hard to hide. Then back into those sharp blue eyes.
“You won’t stop,” Simon said quietly.
Johnny’s mouth curved faintly. “Probably no’.”
“Stubborn bastard.”
“Takes one to know one.”
Simon should have stepped back. Should have reminded Johnny about the meeting waiting outside that door. About the empire downstairs. About the bodies and guns and the fact that men like them did not get soft things.
Instead, his hand came up slowly, settling against Johnny’s wrist. Not pushing him away and Johnny inhaled sharply. For the first time all night, Johnny MacTavish—the man who owned half the city and terrified the other half—looked genuinely affected.
Johnny’s pulse jumped beneath Simon’s hand—small, quick and beautifully human. Simon felt it immediately. So did Johnny, judging by the flicker that crossed his face. Neither of them spoke for a moment.
Rain tapped softly against the windows as the downpour began to ease. Bass continued to thrum up through the floorboards from the club below. Somewhere downstairs, survivors from the failed assassination attempt sat bleeding and terrified in a locked room, waiting to see whether Johnny MacTavish intended to spare them. And Johnny was standing frozen because Simon Riley had touched him back. The realization hit Simon strangely hard. Johnny recovered first, though barely.
“Well,” he said quietly, voice rougher now, “that’s gonna become a problem for me.” Simon’s thumb shifted once against Johnny’s wrist before he realized he was doing it.
Johnny noticed. Christ, the man noticed everything. Blue eyes dropped briefly to the movement before lifting again, darker now.
“Simon.”
Low warning. Not because he disliked it. Exactly the opposite. Simon should let go. Instead, his grip tightened slightly and Johnny exhaled slowly through his nose, composure cracking around the edges in real time. “Ye cannot do that while Ah’m trying to conduct business.”
“You started this.”
“Aye, and now Ah’m sufferin’ the consequences.”
Simon rolled his eyes faintly, but the motion lacked its usual bite. Exhaustion dragged at him now that the adrenaline had faded properly. Johnny saw that too. The amusement softened out of his expression almost instantly. “C’mere.”
Simon frowned. “I’m already here.”
“Closer, smartass.” Johnny tugged gently on the hand still wrapped around his wrist until Simon stepped into him properly. Their chests nearly brushed now, Simon towering slightly over him despite the way Johnny somehow still controlled the entire interaction. Power had never really been about size.
Johnny’s hand slid from Simon’s hair to the back of his neck again, fingers spreading there warm and steady.
“You’re fadin’,” Johnny murmured.
“I’m fine.”
“Yer about one sentence away from fallin’ unconscious.”
Simon considered arguing and Johnny raised an eyebrow before he could. “…Maybe a little tired.”
“Honesty. Good lad.” Johnny’s thumb brushed slowly against the side of his neck where his
pulse beat hard beneath bruised skin. Simon swallowed once.
The look Johnny gave him afterward bordered on predatory. Not cruel, but worse… fond.
“Ye know,” Johnny said softly, “most people are terrified of ye.”
“They should be.”
“Aye.” His gaze moved over Simon’s face carefully. “But then ye do things like this.” Johnny lifted the hand Simon still had around his wrist slightly between them. Like it mattered. Like it meant something.
It did.
Simon wasn’t used to being handled carefully. Wasn’t used to touches that weren’t meant to restrain, direct, hurt. Johnny treated every piece of Simon like it was worth learning gently. It made him feel vaguely unsteady.
The knock at the door came again. More insistent this time.
“Boss?” Gaz called through the door. “The survivors are asking to work out terms before they bleed to death.”
Johnny closed his eyes briefly. “Christ alive.”
Simon finally let go of his wrist. Johnny immediately looked annoyed about it. Duty reasserted itself piece by piece between them. Simon could practically see the shift happen—the crime boss settling back over the man underneath like armor. But the warmth stayed in his eyes.
Johnny straightened Simon’s collar automatically, fingers brushing the leather band still circling his throat before smoothing down the front of his bloodstained tank top with absurd domesticity considering the circumstances.
“You’re stayin’ up here after,” Johnny said.
Simon opened his mouth.
Johnny pointed at him immediately. “Dinnae.”
“You need security downstairs.”
“I need my bodyguard conscious.”
“I am conscious.”
“Debatable.”
Simon huffed another quiet almost-laugh. Johnny looked entirely too pleased about it. Then Johnny’s expression shifted slightly, gaze catching on the fresh blood seeping through the bandage again. All warmth vanished instantly.
“Christ, Simon.”
“It’s fine.”
“That amount of blood is never called *fine*.” Johnny turned toward the desk and yanked open a drawer hard enough to rattle the wood. He pulled out a clean black dress shirt and tossed it toward Simon.
Simon caught it automatically.
“What’s this for?”
“Put it on.”
“My shirt’s functional.”
“Yer shirt looks like ye fought a bear in an alley.”
“I won.”
Johnny barked out a laugh despite himself. “Aye, Ah know ye did.”
Simon looked down at the clean shirt in his hands. Expensive fabric. Probably one of Johnny’s.
“You keep spare clothes in your desk?”
“I run a nightclub and commit felonies for a living. Sometimes people bleed on me.”
Fair point. Simon peeled the ruined tank top off carefully, trying not to aggravate his ribs further and only marginally succeeding. The movement exposed the full spread of scars across his torso—knife wounds, bullet marks, old burns faded pale with time. Johnny went silent watching him. Not pitying. Never that. Just looking. Like Simon’s scars belonged to a story Johnny wished he could’ve protected him from.
Simon pulled the black shirt on, slower than usual because of the pain. Before he could finish buttoning it, Johnny stepped back into his space and took over. Their eyes met briefly. Then Johnny calmly began fastening the buttons himself. Steady hands. Careful around the bandages.
Simon stood motionless beneath the attention, absurdly aware of every brush of Johnny’s knuckles against his skin.
“Ye ken,” Johnny murmured while working the next button through, “if ye keep nearly dyin’ on me, people are gonna start thinkin’ Ah’m emotionally compromised.”
“You are emotionally compromised.”
Johnny snorted softly. “Fair.” The last button slipped into place near Simon’s sternum. Johnny’s hands lingered there afterward. Flat against his chest. Feeling the heartbeat beneath.
Simon looked down at him. Johnny looked up slowly, and there it was again, that terrifying honesty. Not lust. Not obsession. Love. Raw enough to make Simon feel like the floor beneath him had shifted permanently.
Then Johnny’s fingers curled lightly into the front of the shirt and tugged him down just enough to murmur against his mouth—
“If ye pass out during my meetin’, Ah’m holdin’ it against ye forever.”