Hard Pill to Swallow (Song-Smith #3)

Prologue

Stan

Bachelor parties are supposed to be fun. Booze, strippers, bad decisions. Not thermal scopes and rich men cosplay-hunting in my family’s private murder forest.

I breathe out fog and look down at my cold feet. Snow crunches under my weatherproof boots. The night air smells like oak trees, old secrets, and the blood of unlucky woodland creatures who had no idea they were about to become target practice for people who run entire nations like chessboards.

My oldest brother, Damon, stands to my left. Dressed in a three-piece charcoal number that probably costs more than that expensive bottle of liquor he warned me not to steal from his study. But that’s just asking me to take it.

Damon doesn’t know I took a swig from it already.

But I’m sure he will soon. He always knows everything eventually.

So maybe it is fitting that he looks like he’s about to host a funeral—my funeral—and not hunt deer.

Which, of course, he’s not. He thinks he’s above violence.

But honestly, he just doesn’t wanna get his dainty hands dirty.

“Guns are vulgar,” Damon comments when I pull out my latest babies. My twin blades and my custom shotgun. He doesn’t have to say like you out loud. But it’s there with the way his judgy eyes point at me.

So I’m grinning, glad I did steal some of his fancy liquor. This fucking stuck-up prick.

Speaking of pricks, Sterling—my other older brother—is up front, quiet and black-clad like a shadow. Emo, much?

Sure, it’s a hot look if you’re into emotionally constipated murder machines. Elle’s into that type of murder machine. And she’s gonna marry that murder machine tomorrow.

It’s not like she was the love of my life or anything. The brown-haired, blue-eyed angel who made me believe in heaven. Nope. Totally normal. Totally fine.

She chose silver-haired Sterling, mercenary from hell.

Over me. Charming, much more muscular, stud muffin me, who can turn the darkest parts of life into jokes.

Okay, fine, yeah, I get it. Sterling swooped in and saved Elle from everything she should’ve never faced. I’ll admit that any day.

Still… I was there first.

But I’m totally fine. Not bitter or heartbroken. Not depressed at all, over how my mom ran a drug empire built on biochemical brainwashing and used it to glue Elle and me together, before Sterling saved her.

I used to be Ma’s favorite. I’m the youngest, so I was supposed to be doted on and spoiled rotten. Guess I got the rotten part down.

My chin lifts. My eyes find the stars. I pretend the burn behind them is just the cold.

But y’know what? I’m getting over it.

Too tense, I roll my shoulders back, like that’ll magically fix my life.

Nowadays, I’m all about consoling myself through consolation prizes, taking the wins where I can. I even bullied my way into being Sterling’s second best man. Damon’s first because he’s the worst.

Okay, maybe, I did some emotional manipulating to get the spot.

But listen, I’m a Song-Smith. I’m allowed to bend the rules to my will.

It’s written in my DNA. And who am I to fight against the fate written into my veins?

These sexy veins that run down my big, thick arms, and another big, thick thing.

Snorting at my own stupid sense of humor, I adjust my shoulder strap. My twin knives glint in my hands. My shotgun rides on my back like a loyal bitch.

God, I’m just like this shotgun, loyal to a fault, and blows big in one go. Just gotta stroke me right and—

“You look like a character from those video games you play too much,” Damon interrupts my thoughts, murmuring away without looking at me. “You should really limit your screen time. Get out more, and breathe in some fresh air.”

My smile turns bitter. “That is what we’re doing. We’re outside, but thanks, dad.”

Kai—our actual dad—is ahead with Lukas Knight, the other criminal daddy in attendance. I’m sure they’re missing Naomi Knight, the glue of their throuple.

That’s totally relationship goals.

I try not to think about the burn in my chest that’s eating me up inside. Why does everyone have someone? Fucking hell…

Turning toward the growing crowd, I spot some familiar faces. The Aras from Istanbul. A Bratva prince. And Yakuza twins wearing necklaces made of actual severed fingers.

Remind me not to invite those twins to my bachelor party.

Cringing, I turn my head to follow Damon’s gaze. Of course, he’d be eyefucking his wife now that she’s here.

To balance out the testosterone poisoning, Kaye showed up with Elle in tow.

Ah, Elle and Kaye. My two baes, my besties.

Kaye steps up beside me, with her rifle slung over one shoulder and a grenade in her smile. She insisted on coming here ‘cause the idea of missing Sterling’s bachelor hunt offended her. And because she can “outgun anyone any day.”

My eyes catch a couple more coming in to join us.

The Adel brothers. Darius and Idris. Practically Egyptian royalty.

“Stan,” daddy dearest calls out. “Come greet our guests. You remember the Adels.”

I paste on a grin. “Course I remember.”

But really, I don’t. Half my life’s been on a dumb, dirty drug called Kys, and that shit seriously messes with the head.

Idris gives me a too-perfect smile, all straight teeth. Darius just cocks a brow.

“We’ve heard about your latest ordeals,” Idris says, part empathetic, part sympathetic. All of it, though, makes me feel a whole lot pathetic.

So I throw something light in the mix. “All good things, I hope.”

“No,” Darius replies, and then walks right past me.

Fucker.

I watch him go, glaring at his back.

With an apologetic frown, Idris pats me on the back before he and Dad talk about boring business stuff.

Damon and Kaye end up joining them. Their backs turned to me, but I can see how Damon’s hand goes to the curve of her ass.

Ugh, that’s so…unfairly hot.

You try living with two loved-up couples who won’t stop banging.

I never knew thick walls that old could sound so thin. But I’m both a happy accidental voyeur and a sad, sulky cuck through the wall about it.

Sighing, I reload my shotgun. Somewhere in these woods is the sorry something I’ll take my frustration out on.

***

After a round of forest murder, kills are getting tallied like a game lobby leaderboard from hell.

Sterling stays stoic. Bet he thinks he’s won.

Kaye rolls her eyes but smiles when Damon declares she’ll be the winner.

Soon enough, the final numbers are officially counted. Not that I care.

I took my trusty shotgun, found an owl, and cried when it met my eyes and adorably hooted at me. Sobbing against a tree, I got spotted by Kaye. She was rubbing my back when she called me a big crybaby. “There’s nothing wrong with that!” I shouted.

But back to right now, Idris is lifting up a tablet, listing out the top scores.

The Yakuza twins tied with five confirmed kills. They would’ve gotten more, they said, but they were busy collecting the fingers and toes of their kills. Um…yikes.

Sterling got eight. Elle’s lucky number? What a coincidence. Romantic gesturing jerk.

Kaye got exactly ten without breaking a sweat. I hang her a ten. Damon stops her from even giving me five. At my pout, she winks at me instead. Hey, I’ll take it.

Then Idris smiles, asking for a drum roll for the highest kill count. No one obliges but me and Dad, slapping our palms against our thighs. Guess everyone thinks they’re too cool.

When our claps slow, Idris announces the winner, “Darius!”

Darius? Sounds rigged as hell. But there’s proof. Idris reads out that Darius has thirteen confirmed kills, all silent and surgical. Which makes sense. Heard the dude was a combat medic. One that can kill, apparently.

“I was assigned to the Marines,” he muttered to Damon when I caught them between my crying session and dragging myself to the firepit.

Idris claps Darius on the shoulder, saying, “I bet your son would be so proud that his dad had a great hunt tonight.”

But Darius just brushes the contact off. Idris is still smiling like he doesn’t mind.

I do. Darius seems like a dirtbag.

Shrugging, I chalk it up to brothers being weirdly competitive. Mine sure as hell are.

Sadly for me, I’m at the bottom of the list, just like the order I was born in. Damon’s the golden heir. Sterling’s silver with the hair color to prove it. And I’m the bronze medal no one wants to show off.

Nice guys finish last, I guess. ‘Cause my two brothers? Fucking dastardly. It’s why I lost my two baes to them in the end.

Damon and Sterling stuck around them like bees on flowers, giving the girls no choice in the matter, while I tried to do the right thing.

I let the girls go and let them make their own choice. Guess I should learn my lesson by now.

How does a Song-Smith catch his girl? Harass ‘til we get her ass.

But if Damon and Sterling heard those words from me, Damon would dox me to the world, and Sterling would have nine kills for the night.

I glance over at Sterling. He doesn’t react at all to Darius winning. His full attention’s on his fiancée, who’s whispering and giggling so softly it feels like a knife twisting in my chest.

So when a hunt that’s only-for-fun is announced, I skip it and stick to the firepit.

I dig out my flask just as Idris walks up to me.

I eye the fella. He’s rugged in a rich-boy way, with his natural tan, perfectly cut dark hair, and jawline sharp enough to offend. He looks like a model that earned a master’s degree in political relations just to flirt better.

“Cold out, isn’t it?” he says, taking a seat beside me.

“Good thing I’m hot,” I say. “Otherwise you’d be obligated to warm me up, and honestly, I don’t think you’re ready for that kind of responsibility.”

He laughs. “I was told you’re fun.”

“Depends who you ask.” I shrug. “Elle likes me. Sterling calls me a cockroach. Damon’s said I’m a walking liability. And Kaye said I talked too much during head.”

“That sounds believable,” he murmurs, amused. “No offense.”

“None taken.” I hand him the flask.

He takes a swig and doesn’t even wince at the burn. Okay, he can stay.

“I’m sorry about how sour Darius has been tonight,” Idris starts. “He hasn’t been apart from his son until recently. He may also subscribe to the belief that being born first makes him the boss sometimes.”

“That explains the look on your face,” I tell him.

“What look?”

“The youngest kid in a fucked-up family look. The one we get when we’re born dead last and spend our whole lives ranked there too.”

His smile dims. “You’re not wrong.”

“Trust me, I know. Ma was the only one who made me feel special, but none of that feels real anymore.”

“Clover Song-Smith,” he says, not surprising me. Everyone in the criminal world knows who she is.

“Yeah.” I grin wide. “AKA Clo, the queen of biochemical brainwashing and extreme helicopter parenting.”

He studies me for a second. “You joke about these things easily.”

“If I don’t, I’ll cry. And I’m too cute for that.”

He chuckles, then glances toward the treeline. “I can relate to extreme parenting,” he says. “I’m sure you know my father, Set Adel.”

I get a full-body cringe. That man is legendary in a horrific way. A perfect match for my mom. While Ma was running the West Coast drug empire through Kys, Set’s been running operations across the world.

“But I don’t want to spend my life following my father’s footsteps,” Idris adds. “To live a life he claims is written in our blood.”

“Yeah, sheesh, that sounds like a cult brochure.”

“Which is why I prefer a different path,” he says.

That gets my attention.

“There’s someone I work with,” Idris keeps going. “She’s refining Kys. Cleaning it. Removing the rotten parts while keeping the good parts.”

“There are good parts?”

“For some people, it heightened focus and strengthened neural pathways. It was never meant to manipulate minds.”

“Well, my mother clearly missed that memo.”

“She twisted it,” Idris says. “Em wants to untwist it.”

I watch the fire flicker. “Let me guess. You need human guinea pigs?”

Idris chuckles. “Yes, we need volunteers who were affected by Kys.”

“So me and other lucky disaster cases?”

He smiles, a little flat. “I wouldn’t say disaster, but yes, we need a dozen to board the ship.”

“A ship?”

Idris nods. “It’ll take place out on the Red Sea.”

“Ex-addicts stuck on a ship floating in international waters?” I scoff. “You know this sounds like the setup of a horror movie, right?”

“She prefers to call it research,” he says. “But yes, we’re aware of the optics.”

I take the flask back and sip. “What’s her name again?”

“Em.” His smile stretches up to pinch his eyes. “She’s gonna change the world.”

My brow lifts. “Whoa, got the hots for her, huh?”

“Is that what it seems?” Idris laughs. “If it helps you decide, Kaye and Damon have invested in our experiment.”

My eyes go big. “Seriously?”

Idris pulls a small card from his pocket. “Here’s my number, if you’re interested.”

I roll the card between my fingers and read the title under his name. “Trauma surgeon?” I ask, smirking. “Think you can cut it outta me?”

His lips curve up too. “I could try,” he says, “but I spend more time helping Em remake drugs and rewire brains than cut into bodies these days.”

I down the last sip from my flask. “Feels like the start of a terrible idea.”

“Some terrible ideas become breakthroughs,” Idris says.

“Others become lawsuits,” I counter.

He stands, chuckling again. “I hope you choose the ship, Stan. You deserve a chance to become more than what your past made you.”

My chest gets tight. That was so well-said. Ugh.

He gives me one last charming smile before walking away, his steps silent on the snow.

I watch him go, while the fire crackles in front of me like it’s whispering coward at me.

I eye the card, flipping it over, his offer running through my head. A ship. An experiment. A woman named Em. Maybe I’ll get on that boat. Just to see what happens.

Honestly, at this point, I’d rather be strapped to a lab table than keep hearing Elle and Kaye make those sounds through their bedroom walls like I didn’t hear ‘em first. Before my brothers ever did.