Chapter 3
Chapter three
Hayden Herron
Iwas never supposed to want her, and now want isn’t the strongest word to convey what I feel.
Martine Huntington-Russell was meant to be another calculated move in a life built on control. But then she walked into the room, sharp-eyed, untouchable, carrying her last name like a blade rather than a burden, and I realized I wanted to be the one who held the hilt.
Initially, I found her menial association with my long-term goal annoying, but curiosity quickly replaced irritation. Now, I find myself imagining how her pretty clothes would look rumpled, or how it might feel to lick her face.
I want to see her crawl through the mud on her hands and knees toward me. I want to watch her tears mix with her spit. I’d like to know the color and taste of her blood.
Will she obey me when I tell her to crawl to me? Will she reach for me in the night, only to find her hands and legs already tied to our bed?
Martine is incredibly fragile beneath her sharp exterior, her attitude fierce enough to distract a lesser man from her vulnerability. She doesn't belong to me, literally, but she will. And in some ways, she always has.
I watch from a distance as the car carrying her pulls into the driveway of her family's estate. I always know exactly where she is. Leaning back into the leather seat of my own vehicle, my fingers curl around the untouched glass of vodka, ice cracking gently against crystal.
Her father is throwing another one of their parties, and she’s heading straight into the lion’s den. Ford and Dex, with all their righteousness, have no idea what they've unleashed by agreeing to my terms. If Martine were smarter, she would have seen this coming.
But instead of running as I expect her to, she sharpens herself.
Stands taller. Meets the storm head-on, even knowing it will consume her.
I can already imagine how satisfying it'll be when her defiance breaks, when the pride in those eyes melts into desperation, when her sharp tongue begs instead of challenges, when her lips quiver instead of pursing proudly.
I could admire her fight if it weren’t so fucking foolish of her. If the desire to crush that resolve beneath my shoe or my calloused hands weren't stronger.
I glance toward the Huntington-Russell estate entrance, a place I know like the back of my hand, and feel nothing but anticipation for the evening.
The siblings move with practiced assurance. Ford walks beside Martine, his grip firm on her elbow as if reassuring himself she’ll follow instructions. Dex trails slightly behind, alert and cautious with both hands tucked into his slacks.
Martine walks with a certainty tinged with arrogance. But beneath it, I can see the tension ride her shoulders; her pressed lips betray hidden discomfort.
Fear? Not quite.
Doubt.
She wonders what exactly awaits her, and I almost catch myself feeling bad for what’s to come.
I step out of my car, adjusting my jacket cuffs, drawing her attention. Her gaze searches around, sharp as a blade, but she doesn’t see me, so I smirk at her anyway. Because Martine Huntington-Russell doesn’t know it yet, but she's already mine.
The Bonesmen do not deal in mercy. Loyalty is not freely given. It's bought with blood and sealed by much more. Ford and Dex understand that. Their father does not.
The old man thought himself untouchable, powerful enough to order his own sons' deaths without consequence. He forgot true power isn’t wealth or lineage, it's decisiveness, the cold certainty to end a life without hesitation and leave before the body hits the ground.
That’s where I come in.
Ford and Dex approached me with their offer. I accepted without question, not for money or loyalty, but because I wanted her. They asked me so simply, unaware that I was already working on it.
It was pretty convenient, considering they had no idea how much easier it would make things for me. How much closer it got me to the woman whose worn panties filled up my nightstand, and spent every night wrapped around my cock.
They also weren’t aware I was already looking into their parents, an instruction I had received two years ago from The Brotherhood.
What started as a simple task turned into routine, and eventually an obsession.
Watch the father? Easy.
Keep tabs on the mother? Sure.
There are a few things in the world I don’t do well, and watching the Huntington-Russells was going to be easy. Or, at least, that’s what I thought.
I would never use naive to describe myself, but that’s almost what I was, walking into the estate through the back entrance at four o’clock in the morning, just as the evening staff was readying to swap with the morning staff.
I walked the hallways easily; the staff and security could be better sure, but I was also really fucking good at not being seen.
I snooped around and learned about the estate. Figured out which room the parents were in. And on my way out? I found something that I wasn’t told about, wrapped up in cotton sheets behind the final door on the top floor.
I always made sure I knew everything. I’ve always been calculated by design. So imagine my surprise when I found something I wasn’t expecting with a body made for sin and intelligence built for sparring.
Imagine the rage I felt when I realized something had been kept from me, something so deeply forgotten, treated like an afterthought, might be the very thing that could destroy me.
What I wasn’t told was that there was a daughter, designed by God himself to fucking ruin me.
She hasn’t slept in a room without me since then. And she has no fucking clue.
By the time I reached their father just a few days ago, to make good on my arrangement with the twins, he'd already taken something precious from them.
Without hesitation or regret he bashed her head against the marble sink.
I witnessed it myself: their mother, gasping her final breath on the marble floor, crimson pooling beneath her while her husband stood cold and unflinching.
I watched without intervening. I could have killed him then. But I didn't. Not yet. There was something greater at stake.
Their mother’s death altered everything. If their father died next, the estate would pass to his brother. Unacceptable.
The price for me to correct this? Martine.
Securing her was effortless. Sure, Ford hesitated briefly before agreeing to my terms, but Dex never even questioned me. Smart men, who've known me for over a decade, understood.
It’s not as if it’s that simple, but they’ve known me long enough to watch what happens when I see something I want.
I might be the devil's equivalent among the Brotherhood, but Martine will be safe with me, because she’s the final thread in a carefully crafted plan that's already begun to unravel.
She wonders now what awaits her, unaware of what I've already done. What I’ve promised I’ll do.
By the time this ends, I'll have taken everything from her.
And she’ll give it to me, willing or not.
Hayden Herron
Sophomore Year - 1996
I’ve done my best to ignore my Chosen, Dale. She looks exactly as I expect her to this evening, and yet there's nothing I find interesting underneath her poised, deliberate, and utterly flawless countenance.
She’s standing near the grand fireplace, the glow of the flames casting warm light over her skin.
A dark bob of pin-straight hair, it almost looks sharp.
Lips painted a shade of red meant to command attention, but instead seem slightly garish on her skin.
A gown of deep sapphire, clinging to a body sculpted for the hands of men.
She’s a Danton-Taft, the result of a marriage between a founding member's daughter and a politician. Just like my family, she’s old money and old power. And now, she’s been assigned to me.
It would have been a great match if I were known to be grateful for what's handed to me. But anything that comes easy is only half of the fun, and I prefer things I have to earn with either logic or my fists.
Her gaze flicks to me, unreadable but aware, studying me in that way women like her do. Deciding how much of herself she’ll need to give to make this arrangement work. Pity. I prefer them desperate and begging.
I take my time walking over. Never known as a man who rushes with urgency. Let her wait with a belly full of unease.
When I finally stop in front of her, I see the exact moment she shifts, chin lifted slightly higher, shoulders pulled back. It would be a perfect performance of confidence if I didn't see straight through it.
“Hayden Herron,” she says smoothly, voice as polished as the glass of champagne she holds. “A rare sight in the flesh.”
“Oh?”
She arches an eyebrow, her smirk subtle but knowing. “You would think I'd see you more, considering I’m your Chosen.”
I take the drink from her hand, ignoring the flicker of irritation in her expression, and bring the champagne to my lips. “That would mean I'd have to care what you think.”
She tilts her head, watching me carefully, “Is that so?”
I don’t answer. I don’t find her baiting interesting, and her attempts to appeal to me are falling flat. It’s not her fault, really, but the women I usually want are only desirable because they’re generally terrified and running in the opposite direction.
Dale Danton is stunning, in a very average way.
The kind of beauty that is undeniable but predictable, polished, practiced, and above all, expected.
The symmetry of her face is nearly obscene, yet it doesn’t interest me.
Striking yet without intrigue. There is nothing unusual about her.
No flaw that makes her compelling. No imperfection to hold my attention.
I would fuck her in a state of boredom, but that’s as far as I’d ever run with it.
I don’t need her admiration, and I don’t need her approval. I surely don’t need her attention, but I’m grateful for her champagne as I down it in one gulp.