Vicious Butterfly (North Point Penalty Gods #1)

1. RYAN

RYAN

August

My father shoves the tumbler filled with amber liquid into my hand, and I rake my gaze up and down to make sure it’s him.

I hate how much I look like him. Same dirty blond hair, matching steel jaw, and razor-edged brows.

He’s in his forties, but you wouldn’t know it. People think he’s my older brother.

I don’t have an older brother. I am the older brother.

“Alcohol is expressly forbidden,” I say, repeating the rule he’s made me recite sometimes until my mouth dries out.

“You need something. You’re shaking.”

Gee, I wonder why. My life fucking rides on how I behave.

I step a toe out of line, and it’s back to my father’s custom-made prison.

For three years, he kept me under lock and key at the manor, the only attendee in his special Savage Heir Conditioning Camp.

I wasn’t allowed out without his permission, but I was forced to attend elite social functions where I at least got to see my friends.

Out here, socializing when he wants me to socialize, tucked away at North Point Military Academy when I’m not, he still holds my leash, but it’s an upgrade. Anything’s an upgrade.

I take a sip, closing my eyes, letting the scotch burn down my throat, the heat offering the only sanctuary I’m allowed tonight.

I don’t know, maybe I was addicted. It’s too good, too comforting.

Opening my eyes, I take in the polished floors, chandeliers, and tall windows.

It’s beautiful, and still so old. This ballroom must predate electricity.

Even my ostentatious family doesn’t have a ballroom this extravagant.

The sheer size of it. But only the best venue for college hockey royalty.

It’s a private event, not affiliated with the college hockey association, but all the real movers of college hockey—the donors, the coaches, the alumni—are here. There are also scouts, agents, and other people with real pull in professional hockey.

A world I lived in not so long ago. A world I’d give anything to return to.

“That’s it. Drink it slowly, Ryan. Schmooze. Make a good impression. Dazzle them with your newfound maturity and wipe that murderous look off your face.” His tone carries the weight of an underlying threat.

Forcing my lips into a smile, I take another sip. This won’t be enough scotch—there isn’t enough scotch in the world. “Yes, sir.”

The evening becomes a blur of men in suits, shaking my hand, commenting on my stats, talking to my father about me as if I’m not even there.

You would think I’d be used to it by now.

Instead, the ever-present pressure in my chest starts as something insignificant, a mere paperweight, manageable. But I can feel it building.

One of the men clears his throat. “Your professional hockey career was interesting,” he says. It’s not a simple observation; it’s the way rich people inquire while trying to maintain the illusion of manners.

I maintain that I wasn’t doing anything the other players weren’t doing—drinking, partying, sleeping around with men and women.

I was just a little less discreet than most. It was kind of hard with the added press that followed around “the great Henry Savage’s” son and heir.

I ignored Father’s warnings and threats that he’d put me in my place if I didn’t stop. But it was my life. I was an adult.

He’s spent the past few years making sure that while the latter is true, the former isn’t.

I was nineteen when he pulled me out of the NHL.

I’m twenty-three now. My age doesn’t matter.

My life belongs to him. And if I ever want back into the NHL, I’ll play the part of Obedient Heir, even if on the inside I’m a rebellious ball of rage.

Because yeah. He can make me. Even I didn’t realize how much power Father had until he yanked me straight out of my professional hockey career. I don’t know what was said, if money was exchanged, favors, or both, just that no one from that world would talk to me after.

“The boy does much better with structure,” Father assures them all. “We’ve simplified things for him.”

My cheeks burn with humiliation. I’m not a boy. I don’t need my father to simplify anything for me.

“We make decisions together,” he adds.

That’s a lie.

“Nothing important happens without me knowing.”

True.

“He runs everything by me.”

Because I have to. But his tone suggests we’re close, and he’s my greatest confidante.

“Rest assured, he won’t be causing any more surprises.”

One of the men, Gregory Kline, a North Point alumnus, appraises me, but it’s different from how the other men do. There’s a leer as he appreciates the finer aspects of my hockey form in a way that doesn’t translate into stats on the ice.

“Sounds more like the attributes of a good husband,” he says, sipping on his cognac.

Fucking worm.

But yes. Because I was born into “elite society,” I’ll be expected to marry someone of my parents’ choosing.

In my case, my father’s choice. My mother’s been gone since I was a teenager.

That I don’t already have a betrothed is considered permissive—many others in our circle already have planned marriages, joining families for either more power and riches or to maintain the power and riches they have.

My free hand moves across my chest, attempting to remove the invisible weight that seems to have grown several sizes in the space of a few heartbeats, threatening to crush me.

Since it can’t be removed, I down the rest of the scotch I’d been nursing as I wait for Father to bail me out of that one.

But he doesn’t, leaving me afloat in the uncomfortable silence, an invisible clock ticking to the sound of my heartbeat until we reach the moment any answer would become awkward.

Kline is a major financial donor for the North Point Firehawks. Conversations with him need to be treated with care. All I can do in this situation is lead him on and hope my father doesn’t have any real plans of marrying me off to him. I’d rather tell him to go fuck himself.

Fluttering my lashes enough that it’s obvious, I smile. “They’re the attributes of an obedient husband.”

I force the words out, but breathing’s hard as I fight against the weight, now blocking oxygen from getting in.

Smile, Ryan. Just keep fucking smiling.

“Really? Well then, I’ll expect to see more of you this season, Ryan.”

He leaves, and I turn, glaring at my father. “What was that all about?” I hiss.

An amused smile spreads across his lips. “It’s good for you to remember there are worse prisons than the one I have you in.”

At least he knows it’s a prison. One thing I’ll give him is that he lets you know where you stand, and I like not having to wonder.

But he’s too good at knowing which buttons to press, and it’s a real threat.

If I fall out of line, he’d place me with another elite family, like the Klines, who don’t allow their spouses out of the house without them.

According to rumors.

I clutch my chest again. “I … I need air. Please.”

He considers me, and he must finally realize that I’m on the verge of passing out. “Go on then. Don’t be long.”

Shoving my glass into his fist, I beeline for the tall double doors that lead out to the courtyard.

My designer shoes slap over stone, a sheet of it so big, it’s almost like I’m on the ice.

Only, unlike when I’m gliding over tranquil planes of frozen water, I can’t make sense of anything tonight.

I can feel every toe in my skates, but these fucking dress shoes are wrong on my feet, and I’m sure the ground is going to disappear on my next step …

I halt, frozen, spinning my head in the direction I came from.

I’m a long way from the courtyard, somewhere wooded.

I must have been running for a while. It’s all tall trees and dirt in the place I’ve come to.

But I’m not completely shrouded in darkness.

There are lanterns strung along the overhanging branches, and the full moon taunts my ass from where she sits, nestled in twilight.

Bending over, palms planted on my thighs, I pull cool air into my lungs, catching my breath—along with a deep voice off in the distance.

“Give me my damn money, you fucking snake.” My heart rails against my rib cage in the sudden silence. Who the fuck is that? “You’re going to regret that, Clarence. One day, I’m going to rip your tongue out with my bare hands and shove it down your throat.”

Oh, God. The shiver running through me right now. His voice is pure decadence.

There’s a bone-deep growl and then silence. An owl calls in the distance.

Since I don’t hear the other person, it must have been a phone call. I should run. The last thing I need is to go toe-to-toe with someone who’s clearly a psychopath but facing him is less daunting than forcing myself to head back to my gilded prison.

At least out here, I’m free.

There are loud footsteps, each one heavy with anger and purpose. He comes into view from behind the tree, my athlete’s vision able to make him out from afar. Holy shit, that’s Tate VanCourt. He’s the coach for one of our rival teams the Shadowridge Scorpions.

Has he always been that big, though? Like, he could be a real-life werewolf at his size.

How does he fit into that suit? I don’t think it likes him very much with the way it’s bursting at the seams. His black hair is long on top, short on the sides, and he has thick brows shaped like majestic eagle wings, pinched together in the center as he analyzes me.

“How much did you hear?” he demands, getting close.

I stand taller as he approaches; my feet unable to detach themselves from the ground. I’m still not as tall as he is. How is that possible? I’m just over six feet tall. I’m usually one of the bigger things in a room, but not if he’s in it, I guess.

Danger bleeds off the man, and even that doesn’t deter me.

“Enough,” I say. “I heard enough.”

“You snot-nosed little shit.”

Little? I’m a lot of things; little isn’t one of them.