Play The Game (Hannaford Prep #3)

Prologue

HARLEY

The first time I ever stepped foot on the school grounds of Hannaford Prep, there was a churning in my gut that told me I didn’t belong in a place like this.

The crumpled-up brochure that Avery gave to me that promised a new life was tucked in my pocket and read half to death, but nothing could’ve prepared me for what it felt like standing in front of the ritzy boarding school.

The sales pitch was seared into my brain, line for line, like a brand, every word of it the most fucked-up taunt of my life because I never really believed I’d make it here.

Shit, I barely believed a place like this actually existed, because every part of the description sounded like something out of a fantasy novel.

A world-class education. State-of-the-art facilities on campus, a school menu curated by a Michelin star chef, dedicated staff hand-picked to cater to a student’s every need as they guided them on their path to any Ivy League school of their choosing.

That was great and all, but the thing I cared most about back then was the part about the security of the place.

Round the clock surveillance, highly skilled personnel covering the entire campus, and even the lengths the faculty themselves would go in their duties to keep their precious students safe here.

By the end of the first week of my freshman year, I’d heard enough high-profile names thrown around during roll call to know not only why the school emphasized those measures but also that their track record must be decent.

In the end, though, it doesn’t mean shit.

It’s not like I’m surprised about it, either.

Mostly I’m just fuming to have my instincts confirmed.

No matter how extensive the security might be, I knew deep down in my gut that it was all bullshit.

Three men from Mounts Bay walking into the building in broad daylight, without invitation or justification beyond their own whims, just confirms it.

Technically, seeing as he’s related to me, Diarmuid could’ve been brought here to sneak them in, but it doesn’t take a genius to figure out who’s really calling the shots here.

Shit, every eye in the building is fixed solely on one man, and it’s neither my uncle or the goon still smiling and making eyes at my girl.

I’ve met more than a few monsters in my time.

As the so-called ‘lost O’Cronin heir’, I watched one shoot my father between the eyes when I was a kid.

A dozen more held me down to brand me as punishment for his actions.

For more than half my life, I lived in one of the most notorious cities in the country, surrounded by gangsters, dealers, and pimps, and never knew any different.

I know what a long decline into depravity looks like, the way desperation wipes the spark of life from the eye until there’s nothing but a hollow shell left behind, and I know how to pick out an opportunist cleaving the weak in half just to save their own skin.

The Jackal is something else entirely.

It’s impossible not to know something about him, but he somehow manages to be both painfully average and worse than I was expecting at the same time.

At least three inches shorter than I am, the most striking thing about him are the tattoos declaring his status to the world.

Brown hair, brown eyes, and a nose that’s been broken too many times.

He’s nothing special at all, but no matter how plain he is, he could never be mistaken as just some guy.

Standing there in a designer suit that any rich fuck here could pull off with ease, he stands out without even trying.

It’s not the way he holds himself like a Mounty street kid or the two thugs he has flanking him.

It’s not the guns strapped to his body on full display or even the tattoos carved into his cheeks with the sort of arrogant bravado that a slumlord wields like a weapon.

It’s the sadistic gleam in his eyes, the calculation in his gaze as he surveys the crowd and the way it sharpens into possession as he fixates on his target.

That alone is gut-wrenching, but the fact that his target is the girl I’ve made my entire life’s purpose?

Fuck, it makes this entire display unbearable.

Something about my breathing must change because Diarmuid’s arm tightens around my shoulder, a subtle but clear warning to keep my head straight.

That shit would piss me off, but the stakes are too high to lose my cool because it’s not just about keeping myself alive; one wrong move and I could get Lips killed.

Fuck, that might be the worst thing that could happen, but it’s not even the only risk we’re desperately dancing around.

No man stalks a girl the way the Jackal has without being a paranoid, obsessive, delusional piece of shit, so if I set some of those alarm bells off in that deviant skull of his, the consequences could bury us all.

Junior year was bad enough, how the fuck are we supposed to make it through to graduation if he’s coming at us full force?

Knowing that only helps so much, though, and the Jackal is absolutely living up to his sadistic reputation.

There’s no denying that everything this asshole is doing right now is a public claiming, a performance designed to stain Lips by association and cut off her escape route until she has no choice but to return to the Bay and his sickening games.

Isolating her from any source of friendship or help has been his entire mind-fuck strategy so far, and I don’t want to think about how close he came to succeeding.

The entire building holds its breath as we walk out to the waiting car, the silence is uncanny and my gut is churning balefully.

When we return to school at the end of summer break for our senior year, Lips will be treated with a whole new level of suspicious reverence.

The scrutiny is going to piss me all the way off, but maybe it’ll keep her safe.

The sick fuck has Lips trapped at his side, his arm draped over her shoulder in a deceptively casual show, although the way he’s pressing her into his side is anything but. Anyone can see she’s barely tolerating his touch, but still, he molds her into his body until they’re moving together as one.

I can’t fucking stand it.

Heart thumping against my ribcage violently, the pressure in my chest builds until I’m sure something is about to give, and my mind knows nothing but rage.

With every step forward, memories that are seared into my soul assault me, one after another and back again until they blend together and all I can really see is the icy terror on my girl’s face when her mask had slipped and she let us see what was hiding beneath.

No matter how hard I try to clear my head to focus on the danger here and now, my eyes flick over to him without meaning to, and the second I get an eyeful of that sadistic fuck pawing at her, all rational thought evaporates and I’m back to square one.

I haven’t felt this helpless to my anger in years, not since Avery found me during my stint in juvie.

I might be willing to let shit slide solely for her and Ash’s sake, but that doesn’t change the fact that I was born in the Bay, and no one survives that place without laying down their own moral line.

It’s foundational to who I am, no matter how much this place tries to polish the Bay out of me.

Joke’s on them; there’s no escaping that city.

Not the part I’m from, anyway. There’s something in the water there, in the air, something you can’t see or hear, but it changes you from the moment you’re subjected to it.

Fuck, it runs so deep in my veins that I could bleed out and still die a Mounty kid, but it all boils down to this; I take care of my own.

No one touches the Wolf.

There’s nothing I wouldn’t do to hold that line, either, which is exactly why I’m losing my fucking mind right now as I’m forced to watch Mounts Bay’s biggest and most notorious gang leader drag her along with him.

When we step out of the main building, the blinding morning sun hits me and shatters the spiraling fury that had overtaken me, slamming me back into myself and the situation we’re in that’s about to get even worse.

There’s a BMW parked at the front steps, clearly waiting for us.

It’s the same model my grandfather owns and it looks fucking showy, but it’s the specs you can’t see that make it worth well over the mil mark.

Bulletproof, flame retardant, and supposedly able to withstand a bombing; the car isn’t a status symbol, it’s a vehicle built for war.

Directing me over to it before I can react, Diarmuid’s arm drops from my shoulders as he opens one of the doors and ushers me in.

Lips warned me about protocol, but I’m still gritting my teeth at my uncle’s move.

I should’ve seen it coming after his own declaration that I’m a protected player, but nothing about it sits right with me.

I hate what my life is costing everyone, but if it keeps Lips safe too, then I’ll play along.

Diarmuid waits until I’m settled before he climbs in beside me, the two of us sitting side-by-side in the rearward facing seats, and there’s a second before the others climb in as well.

I’m facing Lips, not exactly our original plan, but honestly it’s for the best. With the bullshit at play, there’s no fucking chance I could’ve tolerated another inch of distance between us.

There’s also no way I can look at her while the Jackal watches us both without everything going south fast, but I can keep my eyes averted if I have to.