Prologue
Ronan
Two Years Ago
The air smelled wrong. Money. Blood. Expensive whiskey. Fear.
I stood in the center of Jack Bishop’s private parlor, breathing it all in like poison. The room was large—too large. High ceilings, gold-trimmed molding, velvet curtains drawn tight over the windows. Marble under my boots, polished so clean it gleamed like a mirror. A crystal chandelier glittered overhead, all sharp angles and cold light. There were eight men in the room, not counting Jack. All armed. All looking at me like I was already dead—or worse, like they were just waiting for permission to tear me apart. And off to the side, by the dark leather couches? Two women.
I caught them out of the corner of my eye—rough hands grabbing, shoving, taking their bodies without hurry or shame.
They weren’t in any rush. Rough hands tore at the thin scraps of fabric still clinging to the women’s bodies, shoving them flat against the marble. One man grabbed a fistful of dark hair, yanking the woman’s head back, forcing her to bare her throat like prey caught in a trap. Another had his hand jammed between trembling thighs, fingers cruel and invasive, ignoring the way she twisted and sobbed. The third man laughed low under his breath — not even trying to hide the zipper he tugged down with deliberate slowness. One woman fought — weakly, hopelessly — dragging herself a few inches across the floor, broken whimpers spilling from her lips.Her knees slipped against the slick marble, leaving smears behind.
The other didn’t move at all.
She just lay there, legs splayed, eyes fixed on the ceiling — wide open and glassy. Already gone somewhere inside herself where the pain couldn’t reach. The sounds filled the room. Grunts. Sobs. The wet slap of hands against skin. And no one stopped it. No one even looked twice. It was just background noise here. Another form of currency traded and spent.
This was the future Jack offered. This was the future Lily would be sold into if I failed.
Jack leaned back in his chair, swirling the whiskey in his glass lazily. Then they shoved Lily onto the floor in front of him. She hit the marble hard, barely catching herself on trembling knees. Her wrists were bound in front of her with tight plastic ties — not just restraint, ownership.
A clear message: She’s ours now.
Jack shifted lazily in his leather chair, spreading his knees wider. Lily knelt near his thigh, too close, too vulnerable, like a goddamn offering at his feet. He reached down, casual as a man petting a favored dog. His thick fingers threaded through her hair, stroking it slowly, possessively. Lily flinched, a broken whimper escaping her lips — but she didn’t pull away. She couldn’t. The drugs had her too soft, too slow. Jack’s touch drifted lower. His knuckles brushed the side of her face — a mockery of tenderness. His thumb dragged along the curve of her cheek, down across her mouth, pressing lightly against her lower lip. Testing the softness. Marking what could be sold. Something inside me snapped — fast and lethal — like a tripwire pulled taut too long. I didn’t just step forward. I lunged. One second I was frozen. The next, I was halfway across the marble, fists already swinging, a snarl ripping from my throat.
“Get your fucking hands off her—!”
The words were cut short — ripped out of me — as the butt of a rifle slammed hard into the back of my knee. Pain detonated up my leg — sharp, blinding. My knee buckled. I crashed down hard, breath exploding from my lungs. Before I could recover, another blow landed — a fist driven straight into my gut, deep and brutal. I folded over instinctively, coughing, bile rising in my throat. Another man caught me across the face — a sharp, ruthless backhand that split my lip open. The marble floor rushed up to meet me. I tasted blood. Concrete dust. Defeat. Heavy boots crashed into my side, knocking the last breath out of my lungs.
Before I could hit the floor fully, two men grabbed me — one by each arm — yanking me upright, forcing me onto my knees. The marble bit into my battered joints, cold and unyielding. They never let go — hands clamped like iron cuffs around my biceps, holding me in place, grinding my body down into submission. Like they expected me to lunge again. Like they knew that, even beaten, I’d still try to kill.
I jerked once, pure instinct, but the grips only tightened, twisting until fire shot down my shoulders. Above the chaos, Jack’s voice floated down — calm, amused.
“Good dog,” he murmured, like he was praising an animal that had finally broken.
The men at my sides wrenched my arms tighter, twisting until tendons screamed, but I didn’t make a sound. Not for them. Not for him.
Jack crouched down in front of me, expensive leather boots creaking quietly on the marble. I could smell him — whiskey, sweat, smoke. The stink of a man who thought power made him untouchable. He reached out casually — like he had all the time in the world — and tapped two fingers against my forehead. A mock blessing. A mark of ownership. Then he crouched lower, close enough that I could smell the rot under his cologne.
“You’ll kill for me,” Jack said, voice almost gentle. “Nice and clean. Names I give you. Faces I choose.”
I bared my teeth. Forced out a broken, blood-soaked snarl. “Fuck you.”
Jack chuckled — low, indulgent. Like I was a child throwing a tantrum.
“You can go, soldier,” he said easily, pushing to his feet. He dusted invisible lint off his jacket like none of this mattered to him. Like I didn’t matter. “You can walk out that door right now.”
My heart slammed against my ribs.
“But she stays,” he continued, voice slicing me open one word at a time. “And tomorrow night, we’ll put her on the block.” He glanced over his shoulder at Lily — small, trembling, trying to crawl away across the marble like a wounded thing. “First, we’ll let the bidders have a look,” Jack mused. “Touch a little. Taste a little. See what they’re buying.”
My hands twitched violently against the floor. The men flanking me tightened their grip.
Jack turned back toward me, a smile curdling at the edges. “And the winner?” He shrugged. “He’ll get to fuck her raw. Rip that pretty pussy open. Break her piece by piece.”
He stepped closer — voice dropping into something darker, almost tender. “But not before I have my turn, soldier.”
The world tilted. I couldn’t breathe.
Jack crouched low again, his voice a whisper meant for no one but me. “I’ll be the first to tear her open. Every. Fucking. Hole.”
The words landed like fists. Like blades. My whole body trembled — shoulders locking, muscles spasming — not from fear. From the effort of holding back the explosion roaring up my spine. The men on either side of me felt it — felt the shudder rip through me. They tightened their grips even harder, twisting my arms until my joints screamed.
Jack straightened again, smoothing his hair like it was just another day. “You’ll kill for me,” he said simply. “Or she’ll wish you had.”
