His to Ruin (Claimed by Kings #1)

Chapter 1

Sera

Gabe is twenty-three minutes late, which gives me just enough time to rehearse all the ways I'm going to say no.

No, I don't have extra money.

No, I can't take out a loan I'll never be able to repay. No, I can't keep lighting myself on fire to keep you warm.

I practice the words in my head while my coffee goes cold, fingers tapping an anxious rhythm against the chipped ceramic.

The café is loud with the lunch rush, orders shouted over the hiss of the espresso machine, the clatter of dishes, someone's phone playing tinny music.

I focus on my breathing. In for four counts.

Out for four counts. The technique my college therapist taught me.

I'd been forced to go after I passed out in the middle of class during junior year.

I'd used my food money to bail Gabe out of jail.

That was three years ago. The first time I told myself it was the last time.

It wasn't.

Through the window, Midtown moves like it always does, a river of bodies flowing around yellow cabs and food carts, everyone with somewhere important to be.

I used to love this neighborhood. Now I just see the rent prices I'll never afford, the restaurants I'll never eat in, the life I'll never have because every spare dollar goes to cleaning up my brother's messes.

Movement catches my eye. Gabe.

Even from half a block away, I can see something's wrong. He's walking too carefully, like his ribs hurt. His hoodie is pulled up despite the unseasonable October heat, and when he gets close enough for me to see his face through the window—

Oh God.

His lip is split, swollen and dark. His left eye is nearly swollen shut, the skin around it mottled purple and green. There are scrapes across his knuckles, and when he pulls the door open, he moves like an old man.

"Hey, Sera." He slides into the chair across from me, and I catch a whiff of stale beer and dried blood and fear. It's the fear that gets me. Gabe's always been cocky, reckless, and convinced he's smarter than everyone else. I've never seen him scared.

"Jesus Christ, Gabe." I reach for his face, but he jerks back, eyes darting around the café like he's checking for threats. "What happened?"

"Mind if I have this?" He doesn't wait for an answer, just grabs my coffee and drains it in three long swallows. His hands are shaking. "Was up all night."

"Getting your ass kicked?"

"Language." He tries to smirk but his split lip cracks and starts bleeding again. He swipes at it with the back of his hand, leaving a red smear. "What would Mom and Dad think if their perfect angel was cursing?"

The jab lands exactly where he meant it to.

Our parents have been dead for six years, Dad's heart attack, Mom's cancer a year later, but Gabe still knows exactly which buttons to push.

I was the good daughter. The one who got straight A's and worked part-time and never caused problems. He was the baby, the one who got away with everything because he was going through a hard time. His hard times never end.

"Don't do that," I say quietly. "Don't be cruel because you're scared."

Something flickers across his face, surprise, maybe, that I can still read him. Then it's gone, replaced by the defensive anger that's become his default setting.

"You asked me here," I continue. "You said you needed my help.

So here I am." I glance at my watch. It's a vintage Timex I restored myself, my one nice thing.

"I'm missing lunch, and I have a restoration deadline this afternoon.

You're thirty minutes late and you show up looking like you got hit by a cab.

So, excuse me for being concerned about my little brother. "

I lean back, taking a breath. Getting angry won't help. It never does.

Gabe picks at the croissant I ordered, my only lunch. He tears off pieces but doesn't eat them, just shreds them into smaller and smaller bits. Nervous energy. I've seen it before, but never this bad.

"Look," he finally says, wiping his hands on his jeans, leaving greasy streaks. "I'm not in the mood for a lecture. I need your help."

I nod, staying silent. Make him say it.

"I need money."

The words hang between us. I could pretend to be surprised, but we both know better.

"It's not much," he continues, not meeting my eyes. "A loan. I'll pay you back. With interest."

I grip my hands together under the table until I feel the bite of my nails against skin. My nails are too short to do much damage, but the slight sting keeps me grounded. Keeps me from doing what I always do, which is immediately start calculating how I could possibly make this work.

"How much?"

"Fifty thousand."

For a moment, I can't breathe. "Dollars?"

He nods.

"You cannot be serious." My voice comes out strangled. "Gabe, I don't have that kind of money."

"You have savings—"

"I have thirty-four hundred dollars in savings.

" The number tastes like failure. I'm twenty-six years old and my entire safety net wouldn't cover a medical emergency.

"My checking account has two hundred until Friday.

I've been putting off buying new boots for three months because a hundred and twenty dollars feels like too much. "

"Your apartment—"

"Is rent controlled, and I get a reduced rate because it's above the bookstore.

" I'm trying to stay calm, but I can hear my voice rising.

A woman at the next table glances over. "I'm barely scraping by, Gabe.

I eat ramen four nights a week. I haven't bought new clothes in two years.

Where exactly do you think I'm hiding fifty thousand dollars? "

"What about one of those books you're always going on about?" His voice has taken on a desperate, wheedling quality I hate. "Couldn't we just sell one? You said some of them are worth—"

"You mean steal." The word comes out flat and hard.

"No, I'd get it back, I just need—"

"No." I stand up, grabbing my bag. I can't do this. I can't sit here and watch him try to manipulate me into committing a felony. "I'm not stealing from Mr. Bolinger. I'm not risking my job, my reputation, my entire future because you can't stop gambling."

"Please, Sera." He lunges forward, grabbing my wrist. His grip is tight enough to hurt. "You don't understand."

I could pull away. I should pull away. But something in his voice stops me. There's a crack, a break, something raw and real underneath all the bravado.

"Then explain it to me," I say, sitting back down slowly.

He releases my wrist and runs both hands through his hair. That's when I see more scrapes across his knuckles, and what might be a burn mark on the inside of his forearm. Cigarette burn, maybe.

"Who did this to you?" My voice is barely a whisper.

"I got into a bad spot a few months ago." He's not looking at me, staring at the shredded croissant like it holds answers. "Started playing poker at this club in Brooklyn. High stakes. I won at first, won big. Thought I was good at it."

"You're not good at it." It's not mean, just true. Gabe's been gambling since high school—sports betting, scratchers, that disastrous trip to Atlantic City. He always thinks the next hand will be the one that changes everything.

"I know that now," he says bitterly. "But by the time I figured it out, I was down fifteen grand."

"Jesus, Gabe." I close my eyes. Deep breath in. And out.

"I thought I could win it back." His voice cracks.

"I took out a loan from these guys, played more, lost more.

Took out another loan. It kept spiraling and I kept thinking the next game would be different, and now—" He touches his swollen eye, wincing.

"Now I owe fifty thousand to people who don't make empty threats. "

My stomach drops. "What kind of people?"

"The kind who did this." He gestures to his face. "And told me it was a warning. The kind who knows where you live, Sera. Where you work. The kind who—"

He stops, but I can fill in the blanks. The kind who hurt people. The kind who makes people disappear.

"We'll go to the police," I say, but even as the words come out, I know how naive they sound.

Gabe laughs, sharp and bitter. "And tell them what?

That I took out illegal loans from loan sharks?

They'll arrest me for gambling. And these guys—" He leans forward, voice dropping.

"These guys own half the cops in Brooklyn.

You don't go to the police about people like this. You pay them, or you disappear."

"Then we'll set up a payment plan—"

"They don't do payment plans!" His voice rises and people are definitely staring now.

"Why are you being so fucking naive? These people broke two of my ribs and burned me with cigarettes because I asked for more time.

Next time they'll put me in the East River.

Do you understand? I'm going to die, Sera. "

The words hit me like a physical blow. My little brother. The kid who used to build elaborate Lego cities and cried during sad movies and held my hand at our parents' funeral and promised he'd be okay.

Needs me to save him. Again.

"I don't have the money," I say, and I hate how my voice wavers. "Even if I wanted to help, I can't."

"Then I'm dead." He says it so simply, so finally. Like he's already given up.

"Don't say that."

"Why not? It's true." He stands up, and I see him swaying slightly, like standing costs him. "I came here because you're all I have left. Because I thought," he shakes his head, as though disgusted with me. "I don't know what I thought. That you'd care, maybe. That family would mean something."

"That's not fair—"

"Don't come to my funeral." His voice is cold now, distant. "I'd rather just rot with the rest of the losers in the Hudson. At least then you won't have to pretend you tried."

He turns and walks away, and everything in me screams to call him back. To promise I'll find the money somehow. To fix this like I've always fixed things.

But I don't.

Because if I keep saving him, he'll never save himself.