Chapter 1 #2
They haul me through the room before strapping me to something, pulling my arms to either side, restraining my wrists and then my ankles so I’m stretched out, spread-eagle.
What fucked-up contraption is this? I think about the shit Dad used for torturing guys in our basement, and I can’t help wondering what they’ll take first—an ear, a finger—to send to my family.
Something so they’ll know how serious these guys are.
If that’s what this is, then there’s a chance they can be bargained with.
“Is it money you want?” I ask, struggling in vain against the cuffs.
My dick slaps against my legs as I thrash about.
“There are more polite ways to handle this without pissing the Wildes off. And in case you don’t know, I also have the Lordes on my side, and you do not want to fuck with those guys.
They’re psychotic.” I don’t love that they’re family allies, but it’s the only card I have to play right now.
And they will annihilate whatever family does this to me. Of that I’m certain.
The laughter that ensues assures me that what I felt was a trump card doesn’t go as far as I might’ve hoped. Besides, anyone foolish enough to have abducted me likely already knows that the Lordes have our back.
“Jaime, get Krychek treated,” the man whose voice I recognize says.
Why can’t I place it?
In any case, sounds like Krychek is Knife Guy, and he got what he deserved by pulling that blade on a Wilde.
The door opens again—Jaime and Krychek leaving?—and I’m wondering if the guy who stunned me is alone with me, or if he’s got other guards here with him.
“I should apologize for the way you were handled.”
He’s drawing closer, and he sounds so fucking familiar.
My captor, now standing behind me, removes my hood, and I see the room first, a dimly lit space that looks like a large office or study.
Black walls, antler chandeliers, and candelabra sconces suggesting a Gothic design, seemingly intended to give the feel of a dungeon.
I recognize the space and realize who my captor is even before he faces me.
Killian fucking Lorde. Heir to his father’s enterprise and one crazy motherfucker—he’s the son of Old Terror, after all, and if that name doesn’t tell you all you need to know, I don’t know what will.
Old Terror and my dad had their heyday, powerhouses in the underworld.
The stories about our fathers have become legends as the two of them, together, played out a battle worthy of the gods against the most perverse and sadistic men and women of Fury as business mixed with jealousy, sadism, and revenge.
Old Terror’s advantage was his psychopathy, and he committed heinous acts in the name of his family and mine.
Despite our families’ blood-stained past, Killian is known as a much less brutal crime boss. Or perhaps we’ve simply been in a relatively tame period in Fury’s history.
While I’m exposed and a mess, Killian’s dressed to the nines in a suit and bow tie, his slick, jet-black hair gelled almost to points in his bangs, sharp enough maybe that if it swiped past me, it could draw blood.
A mischievous grin overtakes his smooth face, something sinister lurking in those dark eyes, matching the mood of this dungeonesque study in his family estate of Rothguard.
Killian is masculine beauty personified.
I’m only attracted to women, yet even I can acknowledge he’s the sort of sexy that sets off all the alarms. No beauty like this can come without a price, and though his vision of a face alerts moths to the danger of the fire they move toward, I’m sure few mind the burn if it can bring them closer to it.
Tonight, there’s something more menacing to it than I’ve seen before, his lips parting slightly as if to say, Eve, would you care to try the fruit of this tree?
It’s throwing me off since we aren’t enemies, which is likely why I didn’t connect the voice to my captor, despite having heard it plenty of times through the years.
“It’s been too long, Log. How are you doing, you sly fuck?” He folds his arms as he approaches, clearly keeping his motives close to his chest.
“The devil never shares his plans until it’s too late,” Dad used to say.
I eye him skeptically. I can’t imagine all this to-do was for any good reason. “Very confused right now.”
He winces. “Confused?”
“About why your guys took me from the good fuck I was having, carried me off into the night, and brought me here.”
“They followed my orders not to harm you or your family, which obviously, as a Lorde, was my primary concern. I hope you appreciate that.”
“What about what they did to my guys? Lowes? Hayes?”
“They’re perfectly fine. Told them I had a special secret surprise for you.”
“And they bought that?”
He shrugs. “We’re allies.” He studies me, his expression turning dark…or really, darker. “They did ding you up a bit.”
“Not like I wasn’t fighting back.”
He grins. “Of course you fought. You want something to drink?” He asks that as if I’d simply come for a visit, not like he’d just abducted me.
“I would rather get to the point of why you felt the need to interrupt my night. I can’t imagine it’s because you wanted to have a little chat.”
“Then you’re wrong. I do want to have a chat. But not a little one. A big one.”
He heads over to the bar area, picks up a bottle of whiskey, and pours himself a glass. He takes a swig, taking his time, reveling in this power he has over the son of Ian Wilde.
I wait for what I feel like is too damn long for him to give me a reason why he’s got me here before finally saying, “Okay, seriously?”
“I like you, Logan. You’ve always had a certain charm about you, even when we were younger.”
We spent our teens around each other. We’d see each other when our dads met for poker games or held meetings.
Of course, we’ve had discussions over the years, but only in a professional capacity.
The past few years, though, we’ve mostly engaged through messengers or gotten together to shake hands or sign some agreement.
“Now here we are all these years later,” he goes on. “You tied up in my study, about to have the most important conversation of our lives.”
“Well, that’s a buildup. Now, please, for the love of God, tell me what you’re getting at.”
He laughs. “Our wedding, you sexy motherfucker.”
“Um…what?”
No, seriously. What?
His grin suggests how much he’s enjoying this.
He takes another swig before approaching.
“Don’t try to back out now. I’ve been looking forward to this, dreaming about this day.
And you are quite a catch, I see. And that dick, does it grow more than that?
” Killian Lorde is an out and proud bi crime boss, and the way his gaze is set on my cock makes his interest in dudes crystal clear.
I wonder if he’s comparing my size to other guys he’s been with. “Should I give it a tug to find out?”
“Sorry, abduction isn’t a turn-on for me.” I twist, shifting to keep him from being able to look at it, but he moves closer, his drink in one hand as he reaches toward it with the other.
“Do you mind?” he asks, as though he’s being a gentleman. When I don’t reply, he says, “I’ll take silence as a yes, so tell me no if you don’t want me touching you.”
I don’t imagine he’ll respect what I say either way, so I stay silent, and he cops a feel.
He cups my balls and studies my cock. Something in the way his jaw sets makes me think he likes what he sees and is tempted to probe further, but he pulls his hand away, swallowing like it was a struggle to do that much, leaving behind a warm sensation I try to ignore because it didn’t feel half bad.
“What is this wedding crap you’re referring to?”
“You haven’t answered if it grows, but you want me to answer that?”
“I’m straight, so it won’t do that for you. Sorry.” My sorry couldn’t be more sarcastic.
“You didn’t deny it, so I’ll take that as a yes,” he says quietly, sounding deeply satisfied.
“But I’m straight,” I stress again.
“I don’t care.”
“I’m sorry, but I think I’m missing something here.”
He tilts his head. “Do you really think playing oblivious means I won’t collect? The Lordes always collect.”
“I don’t doubt that, but, Killian, I’m being sincere when I tell you I have no idea what the hell you’re talking about.” That’s not entirely honest. There’s an uncomfortable feeling in my gut that I do, and I just hope I’m wrong.
He walks over to a black desk adjacent to me. He digs through the drawers, retrieving some papers.
Oh fuck.
Once he said wedding, these papers played through my mind, and now, there they fucking are. What the hell did I get myself into?
“I kept these handy in case you wanted to review the fine print.” He approaches me, displaying the last page, bearing my signature. “That’s you, yes?”
“You know damn well it is. Dad gave me that to sign and said it would ensure we were taken care of. I don’t see how that could have anything to do with a wedding.
You sure this isn’t some dumb shit they did on poker night?
” I know better, but there’s some faint hope in me that Killian will reveal this has all been a shitty birthday prank.
But if it is, he’s not laughing. His brow furrows. “Now, Logan, you know as well as I do that nothing in this world comes for free. Old Terror was good with your father, who had plenty of debts, and everyone knew the moment he passed, your rivals would descend upon your house.”
I’m annoyed that he’s talking down to me. “I don’t need a blow-by-blow. I’m familiar with my family’s history.”
“So my father agreed to keep the Wildes safe, on the condition that the eldest sons of our houses would marry when you turned twenty-seven, which would be today.”
“None of this makes sense. Why would twenty-seven be the age? And why would marrying be the best solution to keeping my family safe?”
“Doesn’t make sense? This is the way things have been done in the past. My great-grandfather married my great-grandmother as a truce between rivals.
Following that, twenty-seven was the age the families agreed upon because it allowed my grandmother to have some time to enjoy her freedoms, just as my mother then had before marrying my father to ensure the safety of our house.
A lot of good that did us. And since you’re the younger of the two of us, it was established that you should have the same opportunities of enjoying your youth before fulfilling your duty. ”
“I can’t believe Dad thought this—”
“Your father was smart, just like mine.” His tone is severe, as if questioning their rationale insults their memory.
“Because they both knew nothing would protect you more than being blood with us. Nothing means more than blood and bonds in our world. With us being together, no one can touch your family.”
He’s right. Doesn’t mean I have to like it.
“You certainly haven’t had an issue touching me tonight.”
He studies me again, his gaze lingering in a way that makes me want to hide.
“Why do you keep looking at me like that?”
“Looking at my future husband like I want to fuck him?”
“Stop saying that like it’s serious!”
He moves close, getting in my face, taking me by the chin, asserting his dominance. His expression is stoic as he hisses out, “Don’t ever make the mistake of thinking I’m not being serious.”
A chill rushes through me, and I swallow a lump in my throat.
His gaze shifts to my Adam’s apple, and I’m thinking he’s about to lean forward and bite my throat like a vampire.
Looking into those nearly black eyes—Old Terror had these same eyes—it’s not hard to see why our rivals fear him.
He’s wild, unpredictable. Just like he’s being tonight by bringing up this marriage crap like we could possibly be serious about it.
And yet…he’s frighteningly serious. Disturbingly serious.
“You signed this document, and I don’t care if you meant to or not, you are holding up your end of the bargain.
This is you.” Still holding my chin, he displays my signature once again, forcing me to face the truth.
He leans so close, I can smell the hints of citrus and pine in his cologne and the whiskey on his breath as he says, “And now you are mine.”