Page 6 of Blood and Thorns (Twisted Ever After #1)
Sebastian
“You need anything else, Sir?” Mrs Potter, my head housekeeper, asked as she laid down a silver tray on my desk. I glanced over at the glass of whisky, immediately dismissing her with a wave of my hand.
“That’s all. Please lock down the lift on your way out.”
“Of course, Sir.” Mrs Potter bowed her head.
My gaze followed her figure as she made her way through my home on the cameras, confirming she’d obeyed the order, and I had the entire place to myself. Cracking my neck, I sat back in my chair, reaching over to the ice-cold whisky and taking a sip.
I’d designed my two-story penthouse as an impenetrable stronghold capable of withstanding any type of attack.
Caden and Langdon owned luxury flats below, and only because I trusted them like brothers.
The floors below them were empty, gutted and reinforced with the strongest materials money could buy.
I had cameras across almost every inch, and as my fingers flexed on the glass of my drink, I flicked through the twenty-or-so screens until I found my club, The Thorn.
Just as fortified as my home, The Thorn was the face to everything. A place to entertain rich and influential guests, as well as hide my… other activities.
I became known for my fights, but it wasn’t the fights or the subsequent betting where I made my fortune. No, my empire was in cocaine, the powder designed to give you the perfect euphoric high. Synthetically adapted to lessen the risk of adverse effects, my product was the cleanest on the market.
Nobody could match the quality, and anybody who tried suffered unfortunate accidents.
The leather seat creaked as I rested back, but I couldn’t relax. Recently it had been like ants itching beneath my skin, making me unsettled, and not even the burn of alcohol seemed to help.
Three overdoses in two weeks. Overdoses were going to happen; it was part of the industry.
But three in two weeks ? No, there was a reason my product dominated the market, and it wasn’t because my clients fucking died.
At first, I was sceptical, but the men I had constantly tracking all the other players confirmed it was the Cursed Rose. My fucking powder.
Clicking a button on the mouse, I flicked through the feed until I found something to distract me.
The ice clinked in my glass as I raised the whiskey to my lips, savouring the taste as I watched Morris Grey pace his cell in frantic strides.
It had only been a few hours, and he already looked like shit.
You can take anything you want, Sir… please. Anything.
It wasn’t unusual for weak men to make desperate pleas. I’ve had many offer me their wives, daughters, and sons in exchange for their lives, and I’d never been tempted.
Instead, I drew out their punishments, making each second before death agonising. Letting them wallow in their guilt just a little bit longer until I finally grew bored or lost my temper. Whichever came first.
This was the first time I’d thought about accepting.
His daughter’s fearful pulse thrumming against my fingers while animosity burned in those pretty brown eyes had been… interesting. She was so loyal to her father, all while he was willing to give her over like some common whore.
In the grand scheme of things, 100k was nothing to me. I made more than that as a fighter, but this wasn’t about the money. It was about someone stealing from me. I was known for being brutal well before I even stepped inside a ring.
Which was why I planned to keep Morris a little longer, pacing in his concrete cell, devoid of a window and only his own mind and a few spiders to keep him company. I wanted him to break, so I could then parade him around as a warning to others not to fuck with what was mine.