Because of the name.
“Eva!”
A platinum blond in a lime-green dress waves across the floor asshesteps into view, turning heads across the room.
Eva.
PrincessfuckingEtheridge—crowned the moment she walked through the gates of Kingsden.
The fuck is she doing here? She’s supposed stay where she belongs, in her fucking cage.
She blushes like a rose, gliding past Londoners who practically bow and draw a path for her. All trust-fund kids with big fortunes. Though none as big as Etheridge’s.
I hate that one ofhis kingets to prance around in Fort.
Elton Etheridge.
The fucking viper who has been circling the finish line since his false alarm last year. Everyone at Fort was hoping for his toxic legacy—built on the back of broken families andancestral lands—to burn and disintegrate with him. The first cracks were already appearing. Assets bleeding, businesses crumbling, his wide real-estate map shrinking a mile a day.
He only had one daughter, who—too moral for the viper’s world—married a civil servant and walked away from his exploitative empire. Then she died. Six weeks ago. And apparently, her son is a different breed entirely. Daniel Etheridge took his role at the helm faster than a shark scenting blood in water. Instinctual, efficient, and without a backward glance.
Nowsheis here.
Coincidence?
Unlikely.
Here at Fort, she may as well be her brother’s middle finger.
My gaze tracks her through the room as she greets her friend at a booth with a half-smile. Then her friend drags her onto the dance floor while she staggers in her heels. I lean back in my armchair and watch the hem of her skirt sway with each step, flashing her porcelain legs. She isn’t model thin or overly curvy—just real. Unlike others, she isn’t wearing much make up, apart from the pink on her full lips. Not that she needs it. Her naked, aristocratic ice-blue eyes are doing more damage on that floor than most made-up faces and wiggling arses.
All eyes are on her. Some glares. Most stares.
Everyonewants a slice.
She dances like the stars are watching. When a gaze fixes on her, she flushes pink, tucks her long brown hair behind her ear, adjusts her cleavage, then shrinks inward until they look away.
Someone doesn’t like being the center of attention. Interesting trait for an Etheridge.
“Hey, I was kidding.” Hugo’s brows furrow as he watches me track her. “She’s not worth the trouble, mate. Let her twist in the wind for another year or two, then she’ll fucking vanish.”
Easy for him to say. Every breath she draws at Fort undermines the Grant name.
Wickham returns and props herself back on my lap, but my attention has already been claimed. One glance up at the strobe lights and her electric-blue eyes find me. I lock her gaze. Her face washes pale. And it seems—unlike other men’s leering gazes she brushed away with sluggish moves—mine warrants a complete fucking freeze.
The fucking audacity.
She stands still, a statue in a sea of limbs swaying like reeds in the wind.I half consider marching down to the floor, pressing my hands to her hips, and making her dance, but she crawls back to her booth before I’m done glaring.
“Kane said the pub refurb is going to cost a fortune. Want me to take care of it?” Hugo continues rambling about the fire that Kane and I already cleaned up.
“Let me guess, you want it?” I raise an eyebrow. “Flip it for your own exclusive empire?”
Hugo is the youngest of us. But he’s keen. Too Keen. He was hoping I would hand over The Vault entirely to him.As if. It’s too lucrative. I only agreed to give him the part that saves me from visiting this drunken meat market on a regular basis. That’s all he’s getting.
“Well, you won’t let me bring my girls back to the house.” He opens his arm for a girl who comes and sits beside him. “So, I need to expand.”
“Myhouse,” I correct him. “You and Kane are fucking squatters.”
