Returning to the humid, heavy air of Austin wasn't just a homecoming—it was a retreat into a secret that had finally outgrown the city lights of New York. At twenty-four, Lucas Friar has traded his collegiate books for the rugged responsibility of the ranch, his protective instincts sharpened into something dark and possessive. Beside him is twenty-two-year-old Weston, the brother who never felt the pull of a university lecture, preferring the gravity of Lucas’s shadow. Behind the closed doors of their shared estate, the "Good Friar" persona Lucas wears for the world vanishes. In the privacy of the humid Texas nights, their bond is defined by a rigorous, unspoken hierarchy. Lucas is the undisputed law—dominant, demanding, and always on top—while Weston finds his solace in the absolute surrender of being underneath his brother’s weight. They both know the morality of their situation is fractured, but the pull between them is a physical ache that neither has the strength—or the desire—to cure. While the rest of the world—the Matthews family, Maya, Farkle, and Smackle—remains blissfully unaware of the heat between the brothers, one person carries the weight of their secret. Zay Babineaux, the lifelong friend who knows the Friar blood better than anyone, stands as the lone silent witness to a devotion that would destroy their family’s reputation if it ever saw the light of day. In the heart of the Hill Country, Lucas and Wes are playing a dangerous game where the stakes are their souls, and Lucas will do anything to ensure Weston stays exactly where he belongs: safe, silent, and his.

Chapter 2: Counting the Anchors

The wait stretched, measured in heartbeats and the slow creep of shadows as the last of the sun bled from the high window. The plank door finally opened with a soft creak of hinges, and Lucas filled the frame. He’d taken the time to hang his hat and wash up; his hands were clean, his sleeves rolled precisely to his elbows. He carried the coiled lead rope.

He closed the door. The click of the latch was a period at the end of a sentence.

For a long moment, he just looked. Weston’s bare back was pale in the gloom, the knobs of his spine a subtle ridge down his sweat-dampened skin. The old marks from the belt were faint shadows, a barely-there map of yesterday’s failure. Lucas’s gaze was a physical touch, cooler than the air.

He moved then, boots soft on the wood. He didn’t speak. He began to circle, a slow, deliberate orbit. The trailing end of the coiled rope brushed the floor, a whisper of sound. On his second pass, he let the leather trace a line across Weston’s collarbones, a feather-light promise.

Weston flinched, a full-body tremor he couldn’t suppress.

“You look good like this,” Lucas said, his voice calm, almost conversational. “Centered. Where you’re supposed to be.”

He completed his circle and came to stand before him, looking down. He tapped the coiled rope lightly against his own palm. “We’re going to do something different today. You’re going to count. Not for me. For you. I want you to hear the number, feel it in your throat, and know that each one is pulling you back from the gap. Anchoring you. The numbers will hold you when the world tries to pull you loose. Do you understand?”

Weston’s throat worked. “Yes.”

“Yes, what?”

“Yes, Lucas.”

Lucas nodded. He stepped to the side, shifting his weight. The air tightened, charged and still. “Remember the rule.”

“Rule Four,” Weston whispered, his voice already ragged at the edges. “We eat together. Maintain the rhythm.”

“Maintain the control,” Lucas corrected, his tone leaving no room for argument. “Now. Count.”

The first strike came without further ceremony. It wasn’t the belt’s flat, broad crack; this was a sharper, more focused pain, a line of fire laid directly over the muscle of his shoulder. Weston gasped, his body jerking forward, knees slipping on the wood before him.