10. Landon
LANDON
Jasmine’s still asleep come noon. Meanwhile, I’ve been up since three. Haven’t slept a damn minute. Not after what she said. Not after hearing her whisper that she'd rather be awake with me than asleep with him. Who the bloody hell is him?
It took every ounce of control I had to not let the beast in me take over. To not grab her face, kiss the fear off her lips, and demand the name of the man who haunts her sleep. It almost fucking killed me to not go out hunting before the sun even rose with no name, or face to go by.
I don’t know who he is. But I know, without question, that putting him in the ground would be the easiest thing I’ve ever done. And his blood— his screams —would be the sweetest fucking sound I’ve ever heard.
Until I hear Jasmine moan my name. Until I taste her. Then that man will come in second.
That thought alone is enough to make me punch harder.
I slam my fist into the heavy bag again, knuckles raw under the wraps. The chain rattles overhead, metal squealing, sweat dripping down my back and soaking through the waistband of my shorts.
This gym’s quiet during the day—most people are too busy living their safe, normal lives. Most of the serious athletes came at the crack of dawn and won’t return until way after four.
The only two people in this entire gym are me and my adoptive father Bugsy.
He’s sitting on the bench, arms folded over his thick chest, watching me with that same wild grin he’s had since the first time he found me swinging fists into the air—twelve years old, angry, and starving for something solid to hit.
“ Whew! ” he hollers, clapping his hands loud enough to echo off the high ceilings. The heavy bag shudders on its chain, still swinging from the last blow I threw. “Who the fuck pissed you off, Lanny? ”
I chuckle. “Who hasn’t?”
Bugsy lets out a low laugh, deep and warm. “Fair enough.”
Bugsy’s forty-three, built like a damn wall—six-four, solid muscle, skin the color of rich mahogany and a voice like gravel soaked in bourbon.
Tattoos climb both arms, and the scar over his left eyebrow still splits wide when he smiles.
He’s got a presence that fills a room before he even speaks, but it’s not just size—it’s energy.
Loud, protective, unshakable. The kind of man you either fear or trust completely.
He raised me and Conner both. Took us in when we had no one, fed us, trained us, kept us from killing each other in the same twin-sized room above the gym. Taught us discipline with one hand and how to knock a man’s jaw loose with the other.
I place a gloved hand against the heavy bag, and slow its movements. “I don’t know, Bugs. I’m trying to hold on, but--”
“Hey, I get it.” He huffs, running an ashed hand over his short waved hair. “The world ain’t really a place for good things.”
I rip the velcro of my right glove open with my teeth and yank it off, letting it fall to the floor with a soft thud. My knuckles throb under the wraps, but I don’t care.
“I have good things,” I say quietly. “Jasmine… is a good thing.”
Bugsy watches me for a beat, nodding slowly, but his jaw’s tight. “No, Jasmine’s a Raider thing.”
I glance down. Swallow hard. “I think I really like her, Bugs. And last night… she shared some things with me. Personal shit. Deep shit. And the fucking beast , Bugs—he almost came out.”
Bugsy’s eyes narrow, his whole face sharpening. “You told me you had that guy under wraps.”
I rub the back of my neck, teeth clenched. “I did.”
His stare drills into me. “You sure?”
When I was younger, I fought in Bugsy’s gym. Fought so much, he made me get my hands licensed as lethal weapons the day I turned eighteen. Said it was law and insurance, but really, it was about the line I kept toeing.
The line I eventually crossed. One fight—that’s all it took.
One hit to the temple. One rush of red behind my eyes.
I blacked out and when I came to, the kid I was fighting was on the floor, not moving.
Paralyzed from the waist down. Bugsy pulled me from the ring that night.
Said I needed control —and until I found it, I had no business throwing punches.
I hated him for it. For taking away the only thing I was ever good at.
I didn’t speak to him for weeks. But time passed, and I got over it.
He agreed to train me again. On the condition that I learned to think before I fought.
That I’d never let the beast win again. He doesn’t know what Conner does for me to keep the beast away, if he did, Bugsy wouldn’t know what to do.
He would think he failed us, when he truly did save Conner and me from the worst parts of ourselves.
“Bugs,” I mutter, looking up at him, my voice cracking just a little. “You know how my beast is, man. I’m trying. ”
Bugsy sighs, rubbing his hand over his jaw like he’s heard this before. “Trying ain’t the same as choosing, Lanny. You can try all day and still lose to that thing. Especially when it wants blood.”
Before I can respond, a low, snake-like laugh coils through the gym. I stiffen immediately, and my eyes snap to the entrance.
“ Come on now, Bugsy, ” Marcus drawls, stepping fully into the room, his voice echoing off the walls like a gunshot. “You know we like him a little bloody.”
Marcus King stands in the middle of Bugsy’s gym, in all black everything.
Combat boots, biker gloves, sleeveless shirt that shows off the full tapestry of ink winding up his muscled arms and neck.
Black hair slicked back, brown eyes gleaming with that usual glint, and a smile on his face that looks deranged and unnatural.
“Marcus,” Bugsy says evenly. “You know I don’t like gang politics in my gym.”
Marcus just smirks, eyes sliding to me like he’s sizing me up for a coffin. “This ain’t politics,” he says. “It’s family business, right Landon?”
“You know, Marcus, you’re like the creepy uncle to me,” I snort, pulling off my other glove and tossing it to the floor. “Except worse. You know since instead of just weird comments, you send me on killing sprees.”
He laughs—loud and deep, like I just told the best joke of the year. “Damn, still got that bite, huh? I almost thought we beat that shit out of you.”
“Nah,” I shrug, talking a step forward. “But you beat it out my sister.”
Marcus stops laughing, snorting before spitting on Bugsy's concrete floor. “She wasn’t funny, but you Lan, you’re fucking hilarious.” He turns toward Bugsy, gesturing casually. “So, can I have a word with my nephew? Won’t be long.”
Bugsy doesn’t answer right away. His eyes stay on me. “You good?” he asks.
I nod once. “Yeah. I’m good.”
Bugsy glances back at Marcus. “I’ll be in my office. Right in back. So no funny business.”
“Wouldn’t dream of it, Bugs ,” Marcus sings, rocking on the heels of his boots like a kid waiting for recess. His hands are stuffed in the front pockets of his black jeans, shoulders loose, grin sharp enough to draw blood.
Bugsy doesn’t even dignify him with a response—just grunts and heads for his office, boots thudding against the concrete as he retreats into his office, only fifty feet away from us.
Marcus whistles low and slow, before cocking his head to the side and narrowing his eyes at him.
“You’ve been radio silent Lan. I’ve been trying to get in contact with you.”
I grab a towel, rub it down my neck. “Must’ve missed your calls.”
He scoffs. “Cute. But what ain’t cute is you not keeping your side of the bargain, mate. You know how I feel about loyalty.”
“Is this about the job?” I ask, voice flat. Controlled. “I did what I was told. Moved the last shipment. Kept it clean. Got it done. I’m doing everything for Cast like I’m a fucking dog. ”
Marcus shrugs, stepping forward with a slow, lazy drag of his boots across the gym floor. “You know, if you had a problem with that…” He grins, sharp and empty. “We could’ve just killed you, Lan.”
I suck my teeth, head tilting slightly as I wipe sweat from my brow. “Kill me, Marcus. I know that’s your real specialty.”
Marcus shakes his head, only three steps away now. “You would know, wouldn’t you.”
And that’s it. My vision goes red. I’m on him in a second—fist tangled in the collar of his black sleeveless tee, slamming him back against the support pillar so hard it rattles the goddamn ceiling. My forearm pins his throat. My face is inches from his.
“You talking about Kelly?” I roar, my voice cracking as it echoes off the concrete walls. “You standing here smiling like you didn’t help bury her?”
Marcus’s grin fades, replaced with the darker—colder expression he is more infamously known for.
“Let me go,” he growls.
“Why?” I sneer. “You’re not so big and bad when you’re face-to-face with a woman, right? That’s the real trick, yeah? Loud in the dark, quiet in the light?”
Marcus laughs—loud and unhinged, chest vibrating against my arm. Then he slams his forehead into mine.
Crack.
Stars burst in my vision. Pain rings out like a church bell behind my eyes. I stagger back, stumbling, blood already sliding warm down the bridge of my nose.
He steps away from the pillar, grinning through the blood now seeping from a gash just above his brow. It runs down the bridge of his nose in thick, steady rivulets, but he doesn’t wipe it away. Doesn’t even flinch.
That smile—twisted, gory, thrilled —stretches across his face like something freshly born out of a nightmare.
And for a second, he doesn’t look human. He looks like what crawls out from under your bed when the light goes out. Like a deranged masochist who gets off on pain, who doesn’t just survive the fight—he needs it.
That’s the difference between me and Marcus.
I fight to keep my beast in check.
Marcus lets his beast wear the crown.
And that’s what makes Marcus King so terrifying. It’s not just the violence—not the scars, the muscle, the guns, or the bodies in his wake.
It’s the way he invites pain. How he fractures himself just to prove he can crawl through worse than you’ve ever imagined. He’ll let you land your best shot—hell, he wants you to. Because when he keeps standing, when he’s still smiling through the blood and bone…it breaks something in you.
He’ll wear you down with his silence, his laughter, his lunatic patience—until you’re the one gasping, and he’s the one dragging you by the collar through your own blood.
That’s why men follow him.
That’s why the Raiders never say no.
Because Marcus doesn’t bluff.
He outlasts.
And that’s why I almost died the day I tried to walk away. That’s how he broke me. Not with fists. But with the sick grin of a man who feels most alive when he's dying—just to make sure you go first.
“I don’t appreciate your tone, Landon.” He mocks, eyes blown wide and black as he falls to his demons. “I came here to invite you and your girl to family dinner.”
“She’s not a Raider,” I cough.
“Nah, she’s better.” He whispers next to my ear. “She’s my ticket into the cartel. She’s more precious than a random Raider.”
“I expect you there Friday evening, 6 pm sharp.” He seethes, spit flying against my cheek as he speaks. “Don’t be late, or I’ll come drag you there myself.”