Ruthless Possession (Devil Souls MC: Next Generation #3)

Prologue

Morgan

I still remember the first time I saw them. The memory has never faded.

I'm sixteen, awkward in my own skin, standing at my locker. The hallway smells of floor cleaner and cheap body spray. I'm fumbling with my combination when the energy in the corridor shifts. Like someone's cut the oxygen.

They shouldn't have been here. None of the MC kids go here. After elementary school, my world had shrunk to the quiet streets around my house. Theirs had expanded into the orbit of the motorcycle club on the other side of town. Different schools, different lives. Until now.

They walk in together. Always together. Two shadows cutting through the fluorescent haze of high school mediocrity.

Trenton, over six feet of coiled tension and sharp edges. Dark eyes that miss nothing. Shoulders already broad enough to carry the weight of whatever demons chase him. A jawline that could cut glass.

Matthew, leaner but no less lethal. Sandy hair falling over one eye. The hint of a smirk playing at the corner of his mouth like he knows something you don't. And he probably does.

I drop my biology textbook. The sound echoes dramatically.

They both look at me. The silence lands like a hand pressed flat against my chest.

"You okay?" Matthew asks, and his voice is deeper than I expected. He bends down and picks up my book. Our fingers brush when he hands it back.

"I'm fine," I manage, but I'm not. I'm anything but fine.

Trenton doesn't say anything. Just watches. Studies. His gaze trails over me slowly, like he's memorizing every detail.

"Morgan, right?" Matthew says. "You're in Brenner's English class."

I nod, shocked he knows my name.

"See you around," Trenton finally speaks, and it's a promise, not a pleasantry.

They walk away, leaving me trembling against my locker.

The next day, they're waiting for me at my locker. I blink, certain I'm imagining things, but they're still there when I open my eyes.

"Morning, Morgan," Matthew says, casual as anything.

I mumble something that might be "Hi" while fumbling with my books. Trenton leans against the locker next to mine, silent but present, his dark eyes scanning the hallway like he's on patrol.

"We're heading to the diner after school," Matthew continues. "You should come."

It's not a question. Not really.

"I— Okay," I stammer.

Chelsea Miller spots us in the cafeteria that afternoon. She doesn't say anything at first. Her gaze flicks from me to Matthew and back again, like we're a math problem that isn't adding up. Then she turns to her friends and whispers behind her hand.

I shrink into my seat, but Matthew's hand finds my knee under the table. Trenton's eyes narrow.

"Problem?" Trenton asks, his voice carrying enough for Chelsea to hear. She pales, turns away.

The whispers are a constant static. Then, one afternoon, Jason Cooper turns up the volume. He corners me by the gym, smelling like sour sweat and malice. "What's the secret, Morgan?" He braces a hand on the locker beside my head. "What do you do for them that's so special?"

Before I can even think of a reply, a hand shoots past me, grabbing Jason's collar. Trenton doesn't just pull him back, he lifts him, sneakers scraping against the wall. The hallway noise dies.

"Apologize," Trenton says. The words are quiet, but they cut through everything.

"Jesus, man, I was just—"

Trenton tightens his grip. "Apologize."

"Sorry," Jason chokes out, eyes wide.

Trenton holds him a second longer before dropping him. Jason scrambles away. Matthew is suddenly beside me, his hand warm on my back. "You good?"

I nod, the words stuck in my throat.

That night, I text them: You don't have to protect me.

Matthew replies instantly: We want to.

A minute later, Trenton's message comes through: Always will.

I learn that Trenton's silence is its own language. That Matthew's easy charm hides razor-sharp edges. That they move through the world like it owes them and somehow, it always pays up.

I learn that I sleep better knowing they exist. That I breathe easier in their presence. That the cruel words hurt less when absorbed by their shield.

"Why me?" I ask them one night, sprawled across Matthew's basement couch, homework forgotten.

Matthew looks at Trenton. Some unspoken communication passes between them.

"Because you're ours," Trenton says simply.

I don't understand what he means. Not yet. But something deep inside me recognizes the truth of it, responds to it like a plant turning toward the sun.

The bullies don't stop, but they get smarter, more careful. The whispers continue, but they matter less. I am becoming a different person in the shadow of these two boys.

A year passes like a dream. I'm seventeen now, less awkward, more sure of who I am between them.

Tonight is senior prom. My dress is emerald green, Trenton's favorite color on me. I'm nervous, fingers trembling as I apply mascara.

"Morgan! They're here!" Mom calls up the stairs, her voice tight with excitement.

I take one last look in the mirror, smooth down the silky fabric, and descend the stairs.

They stand in our living room looking like sin in suits. Matthew in charcoal gray, his tie matching my dress, hair styled enough to look effortlessly perfect. Trenton in black, severe and beautiful, green cuff links catching the light. Both holding corsages.

But it's my father who commands the room. Dad sits in his armchair, cleaning his hunting knife.

"Sir," Trenton says, voice steady where lesser men would falter.

Dad looks up, expression granite. "You boys planning to take good care of my daughter tonight?"

"Yes, sir," Matthew answers, charm dialed to maximum.

Dad stands, knife still in hand. "Morgan's curfew is midnight. Not twelve oh one. Midnight."

"Understood," Trenton says.

"She doesn't drink. Neither do you while you're with her."

"Wouldn't dream of it," Matthew assures him.

Dad steps closer, knife glinting. "If anything happens to her, anything at all, they won't find enough of either of you to bury. Clear?"

"Crystal," they answer in unison.

Mom flutters in with her camera. "Isaac, stop terrorizing them. Pictures!"

Dad reluctantly backs down but keeps his eyes locked on them as Matthew slips a corsage on my wrist, his fingers lingering on my pulse point.

"You look beautiful," he whispers.

Trenton doesn't speak as he places the second corsage on my other wrist, his jaw tight, his gaze steady on mine like he's daring me to look away. Two flowers, two boys, marking me as theirs.

Outside, Trenton's sleek black car waits. Matthew opens my door, helping arrange my dress so it won't wrinkle. The care they take with me makes my heart stutter.

At prom, heads turn when we enter. The whispers start immediately.

"Did she seriously bring both of them?"

"How does plain little Morgan have the two hottest guys in school?"

Chelsea Miller's face twists with jealousy. "Pathetic attention grab," she mutters as we pass.

I falter, but Matthew's hand finds my back. Trenton shifts slightly in front of me, angling his shoulder between me and whatever comes next.

"Ignore them," Matthew murmurs against my ear. "They don't matter."

Trenton leads us to a table in the corner, his eyes scanning the room like he's identifying threats and exits. Always the protector.

"Dance with me," Matthew says when a slow song plays, extending his hand. I take it, letting him guide me to the dance floor. His body is warm against mine, confident as he moves us in perfect rhythm.

Over his shoulder, I see Trenton watching, an intensity in his gaze that makes my skin tingle. When the song ends, Matthew delivers me to him without a word.

Trenton doesn't ask, he just pulls me close, one large hand splayed across my lower back. He dances differently, less fluid, more controlled power.

"Everyone's staring," I whisper against his chest.

"Let them," he says simply. "They're jealous."

When we return to the table, Principal Warner approaches, frowning. "Ms. Scott, school policy is one date per student."

Before I can respond, Matthew smiles disarmingly. "We're just friends, sir. Three friends attending together."

The lie slides off his tongue smooth as silk. The principal hesitates, clearly not believing it but unwilling to make a scene.

"Just keep it appropriate," he warns before walking away.

A muscle tics in Trenton's jaw. Matthew's smile never falters, however.

Later, we escape to the football field, my heels sinking into the grass. Matthew loosens his tie, sprawling on the bleachers. Trenton remains standing, always vigilant.

"Next year," I say quietly, "you'll both be gone."

The thought has been haunting me for months. Both enlisted, both leaving for basic training weeks after graduation.

"Not gone," Matthew corrects. "Just away for a while."

Trenton kneels before me, takes my hands in his. "We'll come back for you."

"Promise?" My voice breaks.

"Promise," they say together.

Under the stadium lights, Matthew kisses me first. Gentle, teasing. Then Trenton. Consuming, possessive. Two entirely different hungers, and somehow I need both of them.

I don't know what the future holds, but I know this: I am theirs, and they are mine, and distance won't change that.

At eleven fifty-nine, they deliver me to my door, both perfectly respectful under my father's watchful gaze. But their eyes promise something else that makes me ache for tomorrow and all the tomorrows after.

Summer ends too quickly. Three months of stolen moments, breathless kisses, and whispered promises evaporate like morning mist. Now the dreaded day has arrived.

I stand in the driveway watching Trenton and Matthew load their bags into Trenton's father Torch's truck. The August sun beats down mercilessly, but I'm cold on the inside. Numb. Like my body is preparing for the pain by shutting down early.

"Got everything?" Dad asks them, his voice gruff but gentle. He's been different with them since prom night. Less suspicious, more respectful.

"Yes, sir," Matthew answers, closing the tailgate with a decisive click that feels like a period at the end of a chapter.