Prologue Two
Jax
T he champagne flute shattered against the marble floor of my beach house, crystal shards skittering across the terrace like diamonds spit from the ocean.
I didn't turn to see which model had thrown it. They were interchangeable tonight—blondes in sequined mini dresses, brunettes with pouty lips, all orbiting me like satellites drawn to the gravity of my Rolex and devastating looks.
"Someone's dramatic," I drawled, swirling the ice in my whiskey glass. The clink of cubes echoed in the sudden silence, a sound as crisp and satisfying as the lighting framed my abs.
"You're a fucking asshole, Jax!" Her voice trembled, but not from hurt. She was clutching her designer purse like a weapon, angry eyes roving over my form.
I leaned back in my lounge chair, shirtless and barefoot, not paying much attention to the scene. The infinity pool behind me glowed, its edges dissolving into the Atlantic in a view that had been featured in Architectural Digest twice .
"Sugar," I said, savoring how her cheeks flushed at the dismissive endearment, "you knew the rules when you stepped into my car."
She'd lasted three days, a record this month. Most couldn't handle the quiet hours when I'd disappear into the gym to maintain this god-tier physique, or when I'd simply find someone else to entertain me.
This one had tried to nest. She left her mascara on my bathroom counter and a red thong tangled in my sheets.
Amateur mistake.
"Rules?" She snatched her sunglasses from the wet bar, Gucci strap slipping off her shoulder. "You said, 'No one's ever made me feel this way before.'" Her voice cracked on the last word, mascara already beginning to smudge beneath her eyes.
Ah, the classic line.
"And you believed him?" The second model laughed, the sound brittle and sharp. "Honey, that's his standard line. He said the exact same thing to me on Tuesday."
I had to give her credit—she wasn't wrong. Though technically, I'd used it on three different women this week. But who was counting?
"Is that true?" First model demanded, her gaze traveling down my body despite her obvious anger. Even furious, she couldn't help herself.
"Does it matter?" I countered, my smile calculated to both charm and dismiss in equal measure.
The same smile that had graced the covers of Men's Health , the same issue that had crashed their website.
"We had fun. That's all this was ever going to be."
Truthfully, I hadn't cared enough to remember which one was which. But they'd remember me for the rest of their lives, so really, I was doing them a favor.
"You're an asshole," the second one spat, though her eyes lingered on my bare chest, on the swim trunks riding low on my hips in a way that suggested divine intervention in the tailoring department.
"So I've been told." I shrugged, the movement causing the condensation from my glass to drip down my abs in what I could only assume was some sort of slow-motion cologne commercial moment.
Both women tracked the motion, their anger momentarily forgotten.
“Now, if you'll excuse me, I have a busy day ahead. These muscles don't maintain themselves, and I have a photo shoot at two."
"That's it?" One of their voices rose an octave. "You're just dismissing us?"
"What did you expect?" I asked, genuinely curious. Had they not Googled me?
"A tearful apology? A promise to change my ways? Ladies, my reputation precedes me for a reason.”
A crystal vase—a gift from some admirer whose name started with either A or T, possibly B—shattered against the wall behind me. The first one stood trembling, her face contorted with rage and what looked suspiciously like unresolved sexual tension.
"You'll regret this!" she hissed. "Men like you always do!"
I laughed, the sound echoing off marble and glass like music. Like really, really attractive music.
"Men like me never do, sugar. That's what makes us men like me."
Flawless logic, really.
My security team, discreet and professional, ushered both women toward the door. I heard a parting shot as the heavy oak swung closed: "He's not even that good in bed!"
I nearly choked on my scotch. Not that good? I was a fucking artist between the sheets. A Michelangelo of multiple orgasms.
The house fell silent once more, the only sound the crashing of waves against my private beach. I stripped off my trunks, walking naked through the sunlit living room to where my phone was buzzing on the counter.
Seventeen missed calls and increasingly agitated texts from Adrian.
Adrian
Dude, where are you?
Coach is losing his shit.
Training started an hour ago.
ANSWER YOUR FUCKING PHONE!
I glanced at the time and cursed. Not noon. Ten. Training was at ten today, and here I was, late because I'd been too busy making panties drop to check my schedule.
Jax
Calm your shit, I'm coming.
I dressed in designer sweats and a compression shirt that clung to every muscle. The mirror confirmed what I already knew—I looked like a Greek god who'd decided to try athletic wear.
Perfection, as usual.
The Bentley purred to life beneath me, its engine a comforting growl that matched my mood. The sun glinted off the ocean to my right, off my perfectly styled hair, off the gold of my watch—everything in my vicinity seemed to gleam golden brighter, as if the universe itself thought I was the sun.
This was my kingdom. Fast cars, lots of women, and the promise of victory in the ring. What more could the most attractive man in professional boxing want?
The gym was a symphony of familiar sounds: gloves hitting bags, trainers shouting instructions, the rhythmic slap of jump ropes against the floor.
I strode in like I owned the place, which technically I did—a third of it, anyway, split between Connor, Adrian, and me.
"Look who decided to grace us with his presence," Adrian called from the ring, where he was sparring with a rookie who looked about two punches away from unconsciousness.
His green eyes gleamed with mischief, his tattooed torso glistening with sweat beneath his awful cropped top.
"Traffic," I lied smoothly, dropping my bag by the bench where Connor sat. His dark gaze tracked my movements with that unnerving intensity that had earned him the nickname "Killer."
"You know how it is. Every red light becomes a photo opportunity when you look like this."
Connor's eyebrow twitched. Almost a smile.
"Traffic in the form of two models?" His voice was low, a rumble that carried no further than my ears.
I smirked, unwrapping my gold Rolex and placing it in my bag. "They met this morning. Wasn't pretty. Well, they were pretty, but the situation got ugly fast."
Adrian's laugh echoed across the gym as he danced away from the rookie's clumsy jab. "Another day, another broken heart with you. Or was it two this time? You're like a one-man natural disaster of romance!"
"I prefer to think of myself as a natural phenomenon," I called back, stripping off my shirt and beginning to wrap my hands. "Like lightning—beautiful, powerful, and gone before you know it."
Connor watched me in silence, his own hands already wrapped in black, his expression unreadable. Of the three of us, he was the only one who'd settled down and found love with Sierra, a quiet bookworm who'd somehow tamed the dangerous man.
"Sierra has some books she wants to give you for Avery personally," he said finally, his tone making it clear this wasn't his idea.
“Personally?” I finished one hand and started on the other, the familiar pattern soothing. “Why?”
"Because she thinks your dick is gonna fall off between all these women.”
I laughed low. She definitely didn’t say that .
"Do I seem lonely to you? I just had to evict two beautiful women from my house because I had too much company."
"Yes."
The simplicity of his answer caught me off guard.
Lonely? Me? I was Jax fucking Easton. I'd been voted Sexiest Athlete Alive three years running. My socials had millions of followers who hung on my every shirtless workout video.
Coach Miller appeared before I could formulate a properly devastating comeback, his weathered face set in lines of disapproval.
"Nice of you to join us, Easton. If you're done with your beauty sleep, maybe you could grace us with some actual work?"
I grinned, all charm and confidence. "Beauty sleep is a myth, Coach. This"—I gestured to my face—"is just superior genetics and excellent skincare. Can't have me showing up to the shoot later with bags under my eyes, can we?"
Miller's scowl deepened. "The only thing that's going to be under your eyes is bruises if you don't get your ass in that ring."
I saluted him mockingly, grabbing my gloves and mouth guard. "Whatever you say, sir."
The ring was my domain, the one place where the facade fell away completely. Here, there was no need for charm or wit, for the careful calculation of smiles and touches. Here, I was pure instinct, pure power, pure devastation in motion.
The rookie Adrian had been toying with was sent to cool down, and a more seasoned sparring partner took his place.
He was good, almost good enough for the professional circuit, but lacking that indefinable something that separated champions from contenders.
The it factor that I was born with and had spent years perfecting.
We circled each other, the familiar dance of predator and prey. I let him come to me, absorbing his first combination with my guard, feeling out his rhythm, his tells. He telegraphed his hooks, dropping his shoulder a fraction before each one.
Amateur .
I smiled around my mouth guard. This season was going to be a massacre, and I was going to look fantastic doing it.
The first round was a warm-up, nothing more. I let him land a few shots, giving him the false confidence to think he might have a chance. Charitable, really. I was basically a philanthropist with better abs.