I let out a deep sigh as Jack slinks into the driver’s seat. “What’s that, kid?” He looks over his shoulder. “Did you change your mind?”
“Nope.” I reach for my seatbelt. “And don’t call me that.”
“Yes, ma’am.” Jack turns on the engine.
“Or that.”
As the cars pull away, tires crunching gravel in spitting rain, a mixture of dread and exhilaration washes over me. Like the thrill of stepping toward the cliff, knowing I can’t fly.
One night.
What’s the worst that can happen?
2
MASON
They saypredators aren't born—they're forged.
Fuck that.
A lion isn’t destined to be prey.
Neither are Grants.
A cub’s fate is sealed from the first roar.
As Reginald Grant’s son, so was mine.
It’s in my blood—the heat, the howl, the hunt, the monster that lives inside me who dreams in crimson storms. He guts my morals, carves my patience, and wears down every shred of tolerance until he is me, and I am him.
He moves when I move. Breathes when I breathe. Not a choice, just what I am.
Said monster has been wreaking havoc in my life since I was fourteen, cornered in the forest and attacked by the rebels.
I was surrounded—three to one. That night, he rose inside me stronger than ever. Together, we slashed through the three of them until we were all eating dirt, swimming in a ditch of blood as rain hammered down on us like war drums.
Since that day, I have kept him under chains, tightened the leash when he gets restless. But he’s always onthe verge, waiting for a trigger, the slightest provocation. Then he is out. And, no one can control it. Not even me. Not even when I really fucking try.
And today, Itried.
But some people don’t learn till it hurts.
Lucky for them, I’m fluent in pain.
My Ducati snarls beneath me; a war horse, tuned into even the slightest tilt of my thoughts, the engine screaming louder with each climb as I rise with the dark hills. Hedgerows blur, earth dissolves into shimmering browns and emeralds behind me. The back wheel spins out, leaving a long trail of smoke as I lean hard into a sharp right and roar toward the center of Fort.
The town buzzes with light and rumble, people falling over on the pavements, drunk off their arses. They are all the same—writhing for attention, kissing for status, fucking for relevance—chasing the illusion of importance in a world where they are mere pawns.
I devour the road. A blur of black steel threading between cars, grazing mirrors with centimeters to spare. Not stopping for turns or roundabouts. Traffic light flashes red—a warning meant for softer men who still believe in rules. In one clean swerve, I weave through the traffic, cutting off a white Mercedes. A pissed-off driver pours out of his window, blaring the horn, screaming his annoyance at the top of his lungs. Until he catches the name on my plate. Then the noise dies mid-note, choking on fear, before he scurries back in.
Up ahead, Fort’s tallest building looms, a chrome and glass tower in the heart of the town—The Vault.Fort’s most popular club. New and improved by the club’s new part-owner.
I park outside the back entrance, swing my leg over the bike, and set the helmet on the seat. My palm swipes across my jaw, feeling the scratch of my stubble, beads of sweat already cooling at my hairline as I walk up to the back door. Bruno nods once, then opens the door.
It hits me the second I step in—the sickening mixture of beer, cologne, sweat, and music thumping loud enough to pierce eardrums. Noise that doesn’t seem to bother the drunk morons swaying on the mirrored dance floor.
I settle into my usual place at the edge of the mezzanine and crack my split knuckles, my gaze gliding over the crowd in the neon-stained fog, seeing nothing, scanning faces that do not matter.
