11. Tradtions
eleven
Tradtions
Nash
Nash stood, silent and brooding, on the windswept balcony of his family's beach house in the Hamptons.
A tumbler of whiskey sat abandoned on the balustrade.
Ignored. His gaze locked on the crashing waves of the Atlantic.
The full moon broke through the heavy clouds intermittently and reflected down on the water.
The relentless wind whipped his dark hair back from his narrowed eyes.
His eyes lacked the usual commanding and fierce sheen.
Instead, worry churned in their depths. Subconsciously, they flicked down to the phone cradled in his calloused palm.
The image of Iris, beaten and bleeding on the ground in that alley, flashed through his mind. The phone nearly cracked under the pressure of his grip. Never again. He failed her before, but never again. If the fucker who did this thought he would get lucky twice, he had another thing coming.
He only got close enough to Iris to hurt her the first time because he never suspected someone would target her over him.
Her security was minimal, as he didn't suspect a threat.
Now, they wouldn't get within a mile of her.
He would protect her this time. Or he'd burn this entire city to the fucking ground.
With meticulous precision, he swiped across the screen, summoning the dozens of security feeds that turned this mansion into an unseen fortress. It looked like any other beach house that lined these shores. But that's because he hid what it really was. An impenetrable safe house.
The need to ensure the safety of this refuge gnawed at him.
It bordered on obsessive. Iris, his soon-to-be wife, rested within these walls—recovering still from the last attack.
There was no room for negligence. Not when it came to her protection.
The thought of her, vulnerable and alone, ignited a fire in his chest, a searing reminder of his failure.
His eyes flicked over every feed. Each camera showed him exactly what he wanted to see. Armed guards patrolling with measured strides. No breaks in the coverage. No holes. They reinforced any weakened zones with high-tech sensors and defenses.
There were no missteps. None. Why then did he feel more anxious than ever? Why was he trapped in the grip of dissatisfaction? What more was he supposed to do? He was used to moving through life confidently. Now, he found himself second-guessing himself. He didn't like it.
His attention snagged on the feed from the master bedroom, and for a suspended heartbeat, time stilled.
There, amidst the plush luxury of silk sheets and soft pillows, lay Iris—her dainty form a stark contrast to the massive bed.
The sight of her, serene in sleep, should have calmed the storm within him, yet instead, it fueled it.
Nash's jaw tensed, the muscle ticking with a silent fury. The view from the camera was a stark reminder—that he lost her once before. He had only just reclaimed her, forcing her once more into his world. And here, he was in control of all the strings.
He stared at the tranquil scene of her sleeping form. She was his savior. The only good thing in his life. A better man would have left her to live happily in Arizona. But he wasn't a better man. She was his unwitting siren that called to all of his darker intentions. And he intended to keep her.
The drive to protect her was all-consuming. The beach-house, for all its safety, was a temporary haven. He needed to do more. She needed to be safe when away from this house as well. She might be unable to leave him, but she would never thrive being stuck inside forever.
Nash's fingers were steady as he closed the feed.
The ghost of Iris's sleeping form seemed to linger against the stark black screen.
With a brooding intensity, he navigated to the contacts on his phone.
He needed a security upgrade in the city as well.
Both the penthouse and the office. He lifted the phone to his ear.
The first ring had scarcely finished when a voice, hushed yet strong, answered the call.
“Night Fang,” Nash growled, his words laced with command.
It was not a request he was calling to make.
He didn't wait for him to respond to make his purpose for the call known.
"Beef up the penthouse security," Nash ordered, his voice cutting through the night like a blade.
"Every corner, every entrance, every inch—I want it impenetrable. The office too."
"Ah, as you command, Puppet King," came the reply, a touch of disrespect threading through the otherwise compliant tone. A growl rumbled deep within Nash's chest—the irreverence of youth.
"It's Puppeteer," he corrected, the edge in his voice sharp enough to draw blood. A low chuckle filtered through the line, unrepentant and knowing. "As you well know, Night Fang. I grow tired of having to correct you about this."
"Yeah, yeah, you're the Puppeteer, I'm Night Fang.
I know. So cloak and dagger, the lot of you.
" The retort carried a smirk Nash could almost see.
"Not sure why we all need to go by such silly names.
I swear, an organization like ours that literally rules the world, and I have to call you Puppeteer? It's insanity."
Nash tightened his grip on the phone. Each word he spoke grated on his already frayed patience.
"We are only as strong as our traditions," he rasped, his anger a living entity coiled within him.
He wouldn't stand for anyone who tried to undermine the empire he controlled.
The one he had first destroyed and then rebuilt in his image.
"Yeah, yeah. I know."
"You don't need to be a part of this Night Fang." Nash growled. "I brought you into this world because you were hungry. Desperate for more. Tired of being held back by the confines of the legal system." His words were dark, the threat clear.
"No—" He started in a rush, but Nash gave him no time to defend himself.
"Are you under the impression that you are irreplaceable?" Nash let out a dark chuckle. "I can assure you, competent hackers and computer gurus with questionable morals are not difficult to find."
"I'm the best, you know that." He growled, obviously irritated by his skills being disregarded.
"But if you were dead, there would be a new best, wouldn't there?" A stark silence met his words. Then, softly, he spoke.
"Yes, Puppeteer. I'll get started on the security upgrades tonight."
"Good."
The conversation ended as abruptly as it began, leaving Nash alone once again with the sound of the waves crashing against the shore.
He pocketed his phone and then with a grunt he placed his palms flat on the balcony and then leaned his weight on them. Even with the security in the city taken care of, he was still anxious. His muscles primed for a fight.
A whimper, soft yet laden with torment, seeped through the double doors behind him. Wrenching his attention away from his worries and forcing it to the only thing that really mattered to him. He stalked back inside and crossed the moonlit carpet to the bed.
Iris was tossing and turning—her sleep besieged by nightmares. Her beautiful features contorted in a mixture of pain and fear. His hand reached out and swiped the hair back from her sweat-covered forehead. As soon as he touched her, her body calmed. But the whimpers persisted.
He lowered himself onto the bed, the mattress yielding to the weight of his muscular frame. With practiced care, he slid beside her. Her body instinctively sought the warmth of his, and she nestled into him, a sigh escaping her lips as he stroked her hair.
Nash's other hand lay fisted by his side—a symbol of restrained power and fury. For each whimper that escaped Iris’s parted lips felt like a lash upon his soul. His presence helped her, but it took too long. She wrapped herself around him, desperate for safety.
That bastard would pay. No one terrified his woman and lived. The battle lines were drawn. And they had no idea who they were dealing with. He wasn't just some rich boy who was born into money.
No. He was a rich boy that climbed as high as it was possible to climb. He was the Puppeteer of the Umbra network and he wasn't going to just kill this bastard. He was going to destroy him. And everyone who ever made the mistake of helping him.
Iris
Iris stirred, sleep leaving her as she awoke.
She was warm, uncomfortably so. Her eyes fluttered open to the dimly lit room.
The cracked binds let a thin line of the rising sun's rays shine through.
The room was quiet, even the house beyond was.
All her ears could pick up were the crashing waves outside.
She felt brawny arms around her, warm breath steady against her neck, and for a moment, she allowed herself to relax into the comfort of his embrace.
She knew exactly who she was entangled with, and she just wanted to bask in the feeling of safety he provided.
But her abused body had other plans. After one too-firm squeeze from him, pain flared, and instinctively she began to untangle herself from his hold.
"Careful now," Nash's voice rumbled, low and dangerous, halting her movements. His grip tightened just enough to remind her of his strength. Letting her know she was only leaving if he let her. "Unless you're looking to be ravaged, I'd advise against grinding on me like that."
Iris froze, her heart pounding in her chest. Arousal shot through her.
It had been too long since he gave her the escape only an orgasm seemed to give her.
A chuckle vibrated through Nash's chest, the sound darkly amused.
"You love it, don't you?" he taunted gently, his breath hot on her ear.
"But not today, ma fleur. You're too hurt for fun.
As soon as you're better, I promise I'll make it up to you. "