Page 105 of Sweet Poison

They glance at each other, probably trying to figure out if they’ve seen my face before. I don’t give them the satisfaction of speaking up. After a beat, one of them asks, “Your name?”

“Madden,” I mutter, hands in my pockets. “Madden Hunt.”

The bigger, meaner one pulls out his phone. No doubt calling their boss. He probably wants to double-check if it’s safe to let me through.

It feels like I’m waiting for a century, but eventually they step aside. The gates creak open like an old door that’s been stuck shut for far too long, and I drive through.

The mansion brings back a flood of memories but I push them back as I focus on the man standing at the entrance. Willow’s father. The Godfather himself.

He’s got his tattooed arms crossed over his chest, a permanent scowl carved into his face. He hasn’t changed a damn bit. He’s still as imposing as I remember, radiating the same kind of power that had me second-guessing every move I made in his home as a kid. The man doesn’t need to say anything. Just standing there, looking like he could rip you apart with a glance, is enough.

It’s ironic how the face I love most in the world is an exact replica of this man. Willow might have her mother’s curls, heart and personality but that face of hers is all her father.

I turn off the engine and step out of the car, the gravel crunching under my sneakers. I pause for a second. More memories flood in—me following Willow through the gardens toward her mother’s greenhouse, watching her giggle while looking up at me as if she thought the world of me.

Although a sweet memory, that was years ago.

Now, here I am. Facing the man who runs this place. All for his daughter.

Riagan locks eyes with me, and I feel it—the weight of his hard stare, like he’s peeling back layers, searching for the kid he allowed inside of the walls of his world. Maybe he’s trying to find out if I’m the same angry little shit, or if I’m someone different. Hell, I don’t even know what he sees. I don’t really care. I’m just here for his daughter—the woman who owns my soul.

“Why are you here?” His voice cuts through the air, low and sharp, each word a challenge, like he’s daring me. There is no doubt in my mind about the power this man holds over not only his home but the city.

“I come to talk about Willow.”

“No,” he spits out, without a second thought, like her name falling out of my mouth offends him.

“I’m not leaving her until you agree.”

His eyes—the same shade as Willow’s— narrow harshly, and I can see the gears turning in that thick skull of his, calculating. “Agree to what exactly?”

“To give me your daughter’s hand in marriage.”

That shuts him up for a second. His stare doesn't break. It’s like he’s trying to see into my very soul. Good luck, man. The only one who’s ever gotten that far is his daughter. No one else. And no one ever will. Only my Wild One.

His scowl deepens, his lips pulling tight into a line like he’s holding back from using his gun on me. From all the way here, I can feel the protectiveness radiating off him. And I get it. I get it more than most. He's been guarding her since the day she was born. Willow and her mother are this man’s heart.

"I’ve loved her since the moment she wrapped her little hand around my finger the day she was born," he mutters, voice soft but hard. "I'd give that girl my whole heart if she needed it."

I don't flinch. No way in hell. I stand my ground, meet his stare, and say it, like I mean every word of it.

“I’ll take care of her,” I say, my voice low and firm. "I’ll never stop. She’s my heartbeat."

For a moment, his face softens—just a flicker, just long enough for me to see it. The father behind the Godfather. The protector. The man who would rip the heart from his chest if his daughter ever asked for it.

But then, just as quickly, he shields it again. The mask goes back on, all hard business. The Godfather of this city is back. And me? I’m still standing here, asking for what’s mine. My heart. My light.

And I won’t leave without it.

As Willow’s father glares at me, silent as stone, a soft rustling catches my attention from the side, where the garden sprawls in its untamed beauty just like I remember. There, emerging from between the wildflowers that Willow loves so much, is Mrs. O’Sullivan—dirt-smudged hands, her yellow apron stained, but still, somehow, the very picture of grace.

The moment her unfocused eyes land on me, they widen in surprise, and for a brief, fleeting second, I’m a kid again—standing in her kitchen, surrounded by the warmth of her kindness as she stacked my plate with her famous waffles.

Before I can even react, she crosses the space between us, and then, without a second thought, she wraps me up in a hug so tight, it nearly knocks the breath out of me.

Fuck…

At first, I freeze, stiff and caught off guard by the unfamiliar touch, but I remember her soft laughter filling the air, the way she used to call me sweet boy, and that gentle smile of hers that never seemed to fade. This kind and lovely woman birthed the person who owns me fully.

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