What I don’t understand is why he’s in this photo. They don’t look like lovers. If anything, they look…familiar. Comfortable.
I lift my gaze back to Laurent. “What’s his connection to Margaux?”
Laurent hesitates, which tells me everything I need to know.
“I don’t ask questions, I just deliver the information,” he finally says.
I take a few drags of my cigarette and then smash it into the ashtray, ready to head back to the jet. I slip the photograph back into the envelope and tuck it inside my coat.
Laurent’s expression mixes amusement with pity. “I suggest you be careful, Mr. Herron.”
“Unfortunately for both of us, I don’t take suggestions,” I stand, tossing a few bills onto the table.
Outside, the rain has intensified, drumming steadily against the pavement. A car waits at the curb. I slide into the back seat, settling against the leather as the driver silently pulls away from the curb, navigating swiftly through rain-slicked streets. Streetlights blur past, illuminating my reflection briefly on wet windows as we approach a private airstrip on the city's outskirts.
Within minutes, the car rolls smoothly to a stop beside my waiting jet, its engines humming softly in preparation for departure. Luckily, the café was conveniently located near the private airstrip.
Once onboard, I pour myself a drink and stretch out in my seat, pulling my silver holder out and placing another cigarette between my lips and lighting it.
The photograph sits beside me, and my mind drifts to how Margaux might have known Marchand. Marchand owns a private sex club with an entrance fee of a million, with monthly dues, a place notorious for its secrecy and complete lack of oversight within its suites. Could the Belmont family have had some connection there, perhaps financial backing?
Or maybe Martine's parents frequented the club. It’s known as a reprieve for even the simplest Bonesman. I wouldn’t put it pastthese Legacies being members. Margaux being photographed with the founder of the club can only mean so many things, and few of them good.
My thoughts shift elsewhere.
Martine.
She has a way of getting under my skin, intentional or not. I haven't been gone long, but enough to know she isn't the type to sit still. The thought of her, restless, pushing limits, testing boundaries, makes my grip tighten around the glass.
Has she behaved herself?
Probably not.
The idea that she might need reminding of her place sends a sharp thrill through me.
I take a slow sip, lips curling at the thought.
She won't know when I'm coming back. But she'll feel it when I do.
The jet hums beneath me as the city shrinks away. I let my mind wander to the power I hold over her, the control she pretends she doesn’t crave. Soon, she’ll understand. Soon, she'll be exactly where I want her.
Chapter nine
Hayden Herron
1996
The Brotherhood’s private quarters sit at the edge of Eulogia, not far from the mausoleum—a dormitory-style manor reserved strictly for Juniors and Seniors, completely off-limits to anyone outside the Society. Membership, too, is exclusive to upperclassmen—privacy at its finest.
I’m seated on a tufted couch at an oak table in the smoking room with the twins, Archie, and Hudson, half-listening, eyes fixed on the offensively high pile of coke pyramided on a mirrored tray in the center. My glass of straight vodka on ice sweats beside me. Something the five of us have in common. We all prefer vodka to whisky—cigarettes to cigars.
My gaze focuses back into the conversation to add a laugh at Dex’s jab about whatever cologne Archie over-applied that evening.
Velvet curtains, dark walnut walls, oil paintings of men who look exactly like us, the signet shown purposefully on their pinkies as they rest a hand on their knee. The whole place is curated to remind us we’re not like everyone else. And never will be.
Our first gala as full Bonesmen flew by in a blur, too many hands shaken, not a single face remembered. It’s not that they weren’t important; it’s just that there were too many for any of us to keep up.
Ford's blazer drapes over the back of his chair, already embroidered with the Society's insignia. He and Dex are Legacy members, direct descendants of a founding member, so they’ve practically been members since birth. He’s launching into some diatribe about the seating arrangement at the gala, acting like it’s a matter of national security.
