Chapter 2
MASON
They say predators aren't born—they're forged.
Fuck that.
A lion isn’t destined to be prey.
Neither are Grants.
A cub’s fate is sealed from the first roar.
As Reginald Grant’s son, so was mine.
It’s in my blood—the heat, the howl, the hunt, the monster that lives inside me who dreams in crimson storms. He guts my morals, carves my patience, and wears down every shred of tolerance until he is me, and I am him.
He moves when I move. Breathes when I breathe. Not a choice, just what I am.
Said monster has been wreaking havoc in my life since I was fourteen, cornered in the forest and attacked by the rebels.
I was surrounded—three to one. That night, he rose inside me stronger than ever. Together, we slashed through the three of them until we were all eating dirt, swimming in a ditch of blood as rain hammered down on us like war drums.
Since that day, I have kept him under chains, tightened the leash when he gets restless. But he’s always on the verge, waiting for a trigger, the slightest provocation. Then he is out. And, no one can control it. Not even me. Not even when I really fucking try.
And today, I tried.
But some people don’t learn till it hurts.
Lucky for them, I’m fluent in pain.
My Ducati snarls beneath me; a war horse, tuned into even the slightest tilt of my thoughts, the engine screaming louder with each climb as I rise with the dark hills.
Hedgerows blur, earth dissolves into shimmering browns and emeralds behind me.
The back wheel spins out, leaving a long trail of smoke as I lean hard into a sharp right and roar toward the center of Fort.
The town buzzes with light and rumble, people falling over on the pavements, drunk off their arses. They are all the same—writhing for attention, kissing for status, fucking for relevance—chasing the illusion of importance in a world where they are mere pawns.
I devour the road. A blur of black steel threading between cars, grazing mirrors with centimeters to spare.
Not stopping for turns or roundabouts. Traffic light flashes red—a warning meant for softer men who still believe in rules.
In one clean swerve, I weave through the traffic, cutting off a white Mercedes.
A pissed-off driver pours out of his window, blaring the horn, screaming his annoyance at the top of his lungs.
Until he catches the name on my plate. Then the noise dies mid-note, choking on fear, before he scurries back in.
Up ahead, Fort’s tallest building looms, a chrome and glass tower in the heart of the town—The Vault. Fort’s most popular club. New and improved by the club’s new part-owner.
I park outside the back entrance, swing my leg over the bike, and set the helmet on the seat. My palm swipes across my jaw, feeling the scratch of my stubble, beads of sweat already cooling at my hairline as I walk up to the back door. Bruno nods once, then opens the door.
It hits me the second I step in—the sickening mixture of beer, cologne, sweat, and music thumping loud enough to pierce eardrums. Noise that doesn’t seem to bother the drunk morons swaying on the mirrored dance floor.
I settle into my usual place at the edge of the mezzanine and crack my split knuckles, my gaze gliding over the crowd in the neon-stained fog, seeing nothing, scanning faces that do not matter.
“On the rocks?” A crystal glass appears in front of me.
My head tilts to a pair of barely covered tits, heaving out of a blood-red dress, strategically angled into my line of sight. Not even a minute since I sat down, and they come out of their cocoons. The Fort girls. Drawn like moths to a flame that’s too hot for them to handle.
My gaze lifts to find the face.
Wickham’s daughter.
Her father is a member of the Fort Council.
I don’t know her name, though I may have fucked her. I can never be sure. There are too many fucking brunettes around here. Too many names to remember. Too many faces to forget.
I take the drink and offer her a half-smile. That’s all she’ll get from me tonight.
“I’ve been waiting,” she purrs, trailing a manicured finger down my bicep. Her eyes flick toward the other girls hovering by the bar, staking their own silent claims. “Should we go downstairs?”
Downstairs—as in The Vault’s new level with private VIP rooms. Another new addition by the club’s new part-owner, since I refuse to let him use our house as a shag pad—Hugo’s creative that way. If he wants something, he’ll find a way.
“I don’t think so.” I toss the drink back in a single, bitter burn.
But, apparently, my rejection to fuck her translates into an invitation to sit on my lap. She slides onto my armrest, draping an arm over my shoulders, her thighs grinding against my shaft.
I don’t bother throwing them off anymore.
I would, but that just makes them come at me harder.
They start peeling down the straps of their dresses, shoving their tits in my face, or lifting their skirts until you can see the crack of their arses.
Not that their outfits leave any room for imagination to begin with.
“I can get down on my knees,” she slurps, lowering her lips to my ears.
Fuck no.
It takes a mountain of effort to stay hard for them when they start talking—the drivel.
They all speak the same language, too. Not sure whether they practice it together or if it’s just the wish of bagging a Grant that makes them spout the same fucking nonsense.
Either way, the idea of looking into their fantasy-filled eyes, imagining wedding dresses while they gag on my cock and mistake desire for release as permanence, is not something I want to witness.
“Not tonight,” I say, my voice flat and final.
Her finger stalls on my collarbone, spine jerking upright at the tone of my voice.
“Allow me to refresh.” She reaches for my glass, too eager to please, then practically skips to the mezzanine bar.
“Wickham is persistent.” Hugo Pike appears out of nowhere and drops onto the couch across from me, his silver hair reflecting the strobe lighting and enhancing the devilish smirk on his long face.
“Annoyingly so,” I grumble. I have to remind myself who she is. Not the time to piss off yet another Council family. I have had enough heat as it is.
“You’re late.”
“You’re lucky I came at all.”
Hugo snorts, then clears his throat and motions toward the cuff of my white shirt. “Do you mind? I’m trying to sell a non-bloody vibe here.”
I glance down to find it stained with drops of red, then roll up my sleeve to hide it under the jacket.
“Let me guess, the Austin pub fire?” He places an arm over the back of his couch. “The rebels not happy about the Etheridge girl at Fort?”
“Who is?” I lift a shoulder.
No trouble for years. Then one whisper of that fucking name, and they all come crawling out of their nests like rot through floorboards.
“I’m surprised you haven’t smothered her yet.” Hugo laughs. “It’d be the easier solution.”
This fucker knows exactly how to rile me up. I throw him a warning look when a high-pitched voice cuts through the hum, yanking my attention downward.
Not because of the sound.
Because of the name.
“Eva!”
A platinum blond in a lime-green dress waves across the floor as she steps into view, turning heads across the room.
Eva.
Princess fucking Etheridge—crowned the moment she walked through the gates of Kingsden.
The fuck is she doing here? She’s supposed stay where she belongs, in her fucking cage.
She blushes like a rose, gliding past Londoners who practically bow and draw a path for her. All trust-fund kids with big fortunes. Though none as big as Etheridge’s.
I hate that one of his kin gets to prance around in Fort.
Elton Etheridge.
The fucking viper who has been circling the finish line since his false alarm last year.
Everyone at Fort was hoping for his toxic legacy—built on the back of broken families and ancestral lands—to burn and disintegrate with him.
The first cracks were already appearing.
Assets bleeding, businesses crumbling, his wide real-estate map shrinking a mile a day.
He only had one daughter, who—too moral for the viper’s world—married a civil servant and walked away from his exploitative empire.
Then she died. Six weeks ago. And apparently, her son is a different breed entirely.
Daniel Etheridge took his role at the helm faster than a shark scenting blood in water.
Instinctual, efficient, and without a backward glance.
Now she is here.
Coincidence?
Unlikely.
Here at Fort, she may as well be her brother’s middle finger.
My gaze tracks her through the room as she greets her friend at a booth with a half-smile.
Then her friend drags her onto the dance floor while she staggers in her heels.
I lean back in my armchair and watch the hem of her skirt sway with each step, flashing her porcelain legs.
She isn’t model thin or overly curvy—just real.
Unlike others, she isn’t wearing much make up, apart from the pink on her full lips.
Not that she needs it. Her naked, aristocratic ice-blue eyes are doing more damage on that floor than most made-up faces and wiggling arses.
All eyes are on her. Some glares. Most stares.
Everyone wants a slice.
She dances like the stars are watching. When a gaze fixes on her, she flushes pink, tucks her long brown hair behind her ear, adjusts her cleavage, then shrinks inward until they look away.
Someone doesn’t like being the center of attention. Interesting trait for an Etheridge.
“Hey, I was kidding.” Hugo’s brows furrow as he watches me track her. “She’s not worth the trouble, mate. Let her twist in the wind for another year or two, then she’ll fucking vanish.”
Easy for him to say. Every breath she draws at Fort undermines the Grant name.
Wickham returns and props herself back on my lap, but my attention has already been claimed.
One glance up at the strobe lights and her electric-blue eyes find me.
I lock her gaze. Her face washes pale. And it seems—unlike other men’s leering gazes she brushed away with sluggish moves—mine warrants a complete fucking freeze.
The fucking audacity.
She stands still, a statue in a sea of limbs swaying like reeds in the wind. I half consider marching down to the floor, pressing my hands to her hips, and making her dance, but she crawls back to her booth before I’m done glaring.
“Kane said the pub refurb is going to cost a fortune. Want me to take care of it?” Hugo continues rambling about the fire that Kane and I already cleaned up.
“Let me guess, you want it?” I raise an eyebrow. “Flip it for your own exclusive empire?”
Hugo is the youngest of us. But he’s keen. Too Keen. He was hoping I would hand over The Vault entirely to him. As if. It’s too lucrative. I only agreed to give him the part that saves me from visiting this drunken meat market on a regular basis. That’s all he’s getting.
“Well, you won’t let me bring my girls back to the house.” He opens his arm for a girl who comes and sits beside him. “So, I need to expand.”
“My house,” I correct him. “You and Kane are fucking squatters.”
“Ouch!” He slaps his chest. “Don’t know what you’re complaining about, man. Without me, either Kane will bore you to death, or you will smash his head and bury him in the backyard. I’m the glue holding us all together.”
“Yeah, sure,” I snort.
“Ignore him.” Hugo gestures to the brunette beside him. “He’s a grump like his old man.”
My eyes flash back to Etheridge.
A bartender lumbers toward her booth, arm laden with a tray stacked to the brim.
He places a rainbow of cocktails in front of the girls and points at the four guys in designer jackets at the bar.
And she accepts. Flicking her hand in a royal wave, a blush coating her high cheekbones, her lips part around the straw, and she slurps their drink.
One simple, careless act that sends a sharp, hot current through my chest.
I can’t stand it.
The sight of an Etheridge being worshipped at Fort.
The way she attracts the attention of these posh fucks, widening her net, corrupting my town with her presence, it makes my fucking blood boil.
Time to choke the wildfire.
I flick two fingers toward Bruno, who stands like a fucking gargoyle at the top of the stairs, putting people off. He barges his way to me, then bends slightly to hear over the roar of the music.
“Where are you going now?” Hugo asks as I rise to my feet.
“To fix the problem with legs.”