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WILLOW

“ T his is a stupid idea, Will,” Jasmine mutters, fixing her mascara in the rearview mirror.

“Never said this was a smart idea; I just said it was an idea.” I mess around with the faux septum ring in my nose.

Now that I’m eighteen, I want a real septum piercing, but Dad won’t let me in case I get an infection. I have had this new heart in my chest for sixteen months, and most heart transplants are considered a success after four months, but my body can reject this heart at any time. I will never truly be out of the woods. This heart saved me, but it will haunt me for the rest of my life.

“You want to steal from the King, Willow.” Jasmine enunciates every syllable in my name, and I flinch, looking away from her and at my reflection.

My black hair with washed-out pink tips falls in loose curls around my shoulders, and my smokey eye makeup brings out the green in my hazel eyes. My skin has lost most of its vibrant complexion, and I am just getting some of my curves back after barely eating during my two years of hospitalization.

Jasmine’s voice breaks me out of the trance I’m in. She cocks her head at me as if to emphasize how stupid of an idea it is. “We’re going to get killed.”

I roll my eyes. “No, we won’t.”

“Okay, so what’s the plan, superstar? Are we just going to waltz up into the King of Thornhaven's place and enter like it’s nothing when we weren’t invited, and you're here to steal?”

I shrug, “He won’t miss anything I take, and we look good. They aren’t going to turn away two hot girls.”

“Honey, there are like hundreds of hot girls walking up to the party right now.”

I turn to look out the window at all the partygoers strutting up the driveway and into the 800 acres of the Beaumont estate for Vincent Beaumont’s annual and last ABC party -- Anything But Clothes -- Birthday party.

There is a group of guys standing shirtless, displaying their toned and chiseled bodies. Some dressed in duct tape, plastic bags, and strategically placed cardboard pieces, while others have wrapped Saran Wrap around their torsos, leaving little to the imagination, or just some duct tape with a box covering their private areas, exposing the rest.

The girls, on the other hand, take it to the next level. Their outfits are works of art: newspaper dresses and bubble wrap that perfectly hug every curve. One girl confidently walks by in an ensemble made entirely of silk ribbons that barely hold together, leaving little to the imagination. Another boldly rocks a patchwork design of neon post-it notes, held together by body glue, revealing her long legs and smooth shoulders.

I am wearing four boxes of cereal cut up into a tube top stuck so close to my body the tape nips at me, a micro skirt that is so small my ass falls out of it, and my platform white leather boots. I just hope the guard at the front, who is making sure everyone is following the strict anything but clothes rule, doesn’t make me take off my underwear. Jasmine doesn’t want to be here and sports a pair of black Converse and a black trash bag with three holes: one for her head and two for her arms. Her blonde mohawk has red highlights today.

“Look, I’ll walk confidently, and you’ll walk in with that glare you have permanently on your face, and boom! No one will turn us away, okay?” I nod at her before taking a deep breath and pushing the car’s passenger side door open. My sparkly silver purse is swinging on my arm.

Jasmine quickly follows me, pulling on my elbow to whisper in my ear. “Did I forget to mention that Damien Sterling hates your fucking guts? Wait, in fact, all of the Chessmen hate you: The King. The Knight, even the fucking Rook. They all hate you.”

“I thought best friends were supposed to be supportive?” I roll my eyes, pulling her forward towards the giant golden doors.

Jasmine isn’t wrong; they all hate me.

Vincent Beaumont, also known as the King of Thornhaven, is the heir to this massive estate and finance genius in his own right. He has black hair that is always styled perfectly, piercing blue eyes that see into my soul, and a tailored school uniform that fits him like a glove.

Juan “Cast” Castillo, the Rook, is said to have ties to the cartel, but you wouldn’t know he was crazy unless you saw him like I did. To everyone else, he is the silly class clown with messy, curly brown hair and a lazy smile that soaks panties and makes hearts do backflips. To me, he is a sadist who would love nothing more than to break me and happily lick the tears off my face.

But the one that really hates me and would love to see me fucking dead is the Knight, Damien Sterling. He isn’t as rich as the other two; in fact, his mother worked as a maid for the Beaumonts and the Castillos, and he met Juan and Vincent while he tagged along with his mother as she worked for them over the weekends.

He shares a bond with the Chessmen through their mutual affection for Rosemary Sterling. Despite their reputation for not caring about anyone or anything, I know they loved Rosemary dearly. It was evident in their actions when she was diagnosed with cancer; they spared no expense and visited her every day.

When my myocarditis was so bad I couldn’t leave the hospital, and everyone said I was a heart attack away from death, I would hang out with Rosemary in the hospital garden. She would give me her cherry jello and hug me tightly when no one else would in fear of breaking me. Her heart overflowed with kindness, making it almost overwhelming to be around her.

Damien’s mother was perfect and the center of the Chessmen’s worlds. So when he found out she died for me, that was it; he hated me. I was the reason he was now alone in the world.

I am the reason the only mother they ever had is dead, and they have all rights to hate me. I hate me. If I knew it was hers, I would have never taken it, but I didn’t know until after the transplant was finished that Rosemary Sterling donated her heart to me. I didn’t even know she was being tested to see if we were compatible.

Jasmine doesn’t know any of this; she just thinks they’re cruel, and I guess it is better to assume they are evil than to know how kind they can genuinely be. It only makes the looks they give me even more painful. It only makes me take my punishments at school like I deserve them because I do.

As we approach the sprawling 800-acre estate, I can’t help but feel a mix of awe and anxiety wash over me. The Greek-inspired mansion looms before us, its towering white columns flashing different colors from the party lights, and intricate carvings decorate the sides. The golden door at the entrance sparkles, invitingly like the gates of heaven—yet intimidating because I know nothing heavenly exists on the other side of that door.

A security guard, his muscular frame like a fortress, looms next to the golden doors, scanning the crowd of partygoers with hawkish intensity. He barely dodges a guy wrapped in a toga-like ensemble as he assesses the crowd. “Can’t let you in, man,” he declares, his voice cold and unyielding.

“What? Come on, man—these are not clothes; these are bed sheets!” the guy protests.

The guard shrugs dismissively. “Rules were changed: no bedsheets, curtains, or clothes-like fabric.”

“Seriously?!” The guy’s voice rises in disbelief, and I can sense the tension crackling in the air.

“Yeah, go change and come back,” the guard retorts, a glint of satisfaction in his eye as he watches the guy's shoulders slump. With a groan, the rejected partygoer turns, stomping away, frustration radiating off him like heat waves.

I feel the weight of the guard's gaze shift to us as if he can smell the uncertainty wafting off our skin. Jasmine and I exchange a quick look, and I swallow hard.

A smarmy smile curls his lips, and I can feel my stomach churn with disgust. “Spin,” he commands, and my heart races, a flash of anger igniting within me.

“What?” I snap, my eyebrows furrowing and fists balling up at my sides.

He leans in slightly, the smugness radiating off him like a foul odor. “No underwear allowed. It’s part of the rules because it’s technically clothes.”

A pulse of heat surges through me, and I instinctively bristle, ready to tell him off. “Are you serious?” I demand. This guy must be a creep; there’s no way he can be serious.

But then, he looks off to the side, and I follow his gaze to the clear bin beside him—overflowing with an array of colorful panties from other partygoers. “Sorry, sweetheart. I don’t make the rules.” He smiles, leveling his obsidian eyes with mine.

“Don’t call me sweetheart.” I roll my eyes, my heart thundering in my chest and my gut twisting in annoyance -- only the Chessmen would want every girl at this party commando. With a slight shimmy, I tug my cute white satin underwear with a dainty bow in the front, the sexiest underwear I own, down my thighs and over my boots. I feel ridiculous and angry as I drop the delicate fabric into the bin with an exaggerated sigh, shooting the guard with a sarcastic look of compliance.

“There, happy?” I snarl, trying to mask the wave of vulnerability threatening to wash over me.

The guard’s grin widens as he moves out of our way, “Enjoy, ladies.”

“You didn’t ask for my underwear,” Jasmine narrows her eyes on him and places both hands on her hips.

The guard shoots both eyebrows up in confusion and looks around him as if she isn’t talking to him. “Girl, I can tell by your face if anyone touches you, you will stab them.”

Jasmine’s grin sharpens, transforming her delicate features into something fierce and predatory. She laces her fingers through mine, squeezing tightly. “And you’d be absolutely correct!” She shoots back, her voice laced with playful menace. “Aren’t you observant?”

Jasmine tugs me forward, and we step into the chaotic whirlwind of the party; the air is heavy with laughter, alcohol, and music. The moment we cross the threshold, I’m hit by a wave of noise and color, overwhelming my senses.

A group of our peers swirls around us, their bodies glistening under the vibrant lights, some already stumbling under the weight of drinks in their hands. A couple nearby is locked in a passionate kiss, oblivious to the world, with their trash bags ripped open, exposing both girls’ breasts, while naked acrobats twist through the air above, defying gravity in their silks.

“Welcome to the jungle,” Jasmine whispers in my ear as she scans the room, rocking back on the heels of her feet.

My mind races as I assess the opulence surrounding us. Gold-plated fixtures shine like beacons, and clusters of expensive bottles are lining tables draped in silk. Art pieces worth thousands hang on the walls, and the laughter and chatter of Thornhaven’s elite fill the air.

But I can’t focus on the luxury right now; I need to think strategically. My eyes dart around the room, searching for the perfect item to steal—something that would fetch at least twenty grand, enough to keep our house from foreclosing. Just one thing, and I can figure out the rest later.

“Let’s do a lap and see what I can grab,” I whisper to Jasmine, suddenly distracted by the two girls grinding on each other.

“Just don’t get caught,” she warns, her voice low. “The Chessmen are going to be around here somewhere, and if they catch you…”

“I’ll cross that bridge when I get there,” I retort, trying to shake off the rising anxiety. I’m so close to saving my father and pulling us out of this mess. I just need to be smart about it.

Jasmine pulls me deeper into the crowd, and I can’t help but marvel at the sheer absurdity of the party. A group of girls flits by in elaborate dresses made of bubble wrap, giggling as they bounce on their heels. The pulsating music seeps into my bones, blending with the energy of the people around me, and for a brief moment, I almost forget why I’m here.

“Look at that,” Jasmine whispers, tilting her head to the right where an ornate silver vase is perched atop a marble pedestal near the entrance. It glimmers tantalizingly in the light, and I can already envision the price tag it must carry.

“That’s a steal-worthy piece. But it’s too exposed. Anyone could see us lift it.” I huff, continuing to survey the room. I need to go upstairs to the jewelry, something small like a watch that I will probably have to hide between my butt cheeks, but it’ll be worth it. Right when I am going to turn to Jasmine and tell her, that’s when I see the first Chessman, Juan “Cast” Castillo.

Cast stands across the room, a figure carved from shadows and light, his emerald-green eyes glinting like polished gemstones. The flickering party lights catch the glitter dusted across his bare chest, making him shimmer like an earth bound god. He moves with an effortless grace, his body coiling and uncoiling like a serpent ready to strike, each motion smooth and deliberate as he dances.

His tousled and wild brown hair frames his chiseled features, drawing attention to his high cheekbones and the mischievous glint in his eyes. A playful smirk dances on his lips; one that looks inviting and sweet. He’s dressed in a daring ensemble that barely conceals his toned physique—just a few strategically placed foil patches, duct tape, and an ornate belt hanging low on his hips.

The chaos of the party swirls around him--his presence demanding attention as if he’s the sun and everyone else are mere planets caught in his orbit. I can feel myself drawn to him like prey to the colorful trance of their predator.

As soon as our gazes connect, everything else blurs out of focus. My heart races in my chest, and I can almost feel the electricity crackling between us. His intense stare bores into me, sparking a tingling sensation that runs through my body. He is no longer smiling, and my stomach drops, knowing that I am the reason he doesn’t look so carefree anymore.

I pull my gaze away and whisper into Jasmine’s ear. “I’ll distract the crowd. You keep an eye out for the guards and the Chessmen. If anything goes sideways, bail.”

Jasmine raises an eyebrow. “Don’t get in trouble, Will, promise?”

“Trouble is just another word for opportunity,” I smirk as I grab a shot off of a passing waiter’s tray and down it, flashing her a huge grin. “Make sure Cast doesn’t follow me.”

Chapter 2- Vincent

She locks eyes with Cast, but I saw her first. Willow Cater, in my house, wearing four cereal boxes that barely cover her breasts and definitely don’t cover her ass. I must thank Cast for his no-underwear rule; it’ll make what I want to do to her so much easier.

I know we hate her, but there is a thin line between hate and lust, and fuck does she not teeter on the line of making me want to fuck her every day. When we first met her, she had been sick for three years prior, and she looked hollow and broken, just like Rosemary looked the last time I saw her. She was a shell of a girl that I wanted to fill.

I wanted to make her our little slave for the rest of her life for taking away the only woman who has ever loved me, but Damien wouldn’t have it. Just looking at her made him sick, and since he was the one left alone in a broken-down apartment in the shitty part of town, he made the call on what we would do to Willow. He decided we hated her, that we would make her wish she died instead of Rosemary, and while I think that’s a waste of a perfect ass and hourglass figure, I wasn’t the one who lost their biological mother.

I watch her from the balcony, shrouded in shadows, leaning forward on my throne with a joint hanging out of my mouth. I’m up here away from everyone because I’m not likable like Juan, or in love with the limelight like Damien. I hate parties. I only have this fucking party to reestablish what everyone knows: I am King of Thronhaven, and I keep my subject satiated. At every party I make a grand entrance, pick the girl I want in my bed tonight, fuck her and then go to sleep.

Willow whispers to her friend and then snakes her perfect ass through the crowd, looking cautiously over her shoulder when she reaches the grand staircase leading up to the private rooms upstairs. She slides past the velvet rope with a distinct ‘Do Not Enter’ sign hanging on it.

A low chuckle rumbles through my chest— naughty girl sneaking into forbidden areas. She will need to be punished, and I know the perfect way to do so.

I stamp the joint out on the railing and move through the dark hallways to the other side of the house, which is too fucking big for me, my stepmother, Angie, and her two children, both under the age of ten, both in boarding school. My father and Angie are on their annual February trip to England on my birthday, and unless you count the silent servants, I live here alone most of the time. I have twenty-five bedrooms, fifteen bathrooms, six half-bathrooms, three pools, a music room with a professional-grade recording studio, a tennis and basketball court, a mini-museum, Rosemary’s untouched art studio, a library, and, of course, a greenhouse all to myself. I would like it if Damien also lived here, but he refuses to leave the apartment he lived in with his mother. Juan and I take turns paying the rent, and sometimes we stay there, too, because it feels more like home than either of our houses.

I keep walking until I see a tiny sliver of light flooding the hallway, and my lips quirk because the little devil found my room out of all the rooms in this house. How lucky am I?

I lightly push the door open, and she doesn’t notice. Her body is hunched over the glass case in the corner, filled with watches, cufflinks, diamond earrings, and a platinum, diamond-encrusted, Jesus-piece chain Cast got me as a joke. I may be old money, but Cast’s money goes longer than mine, and while he claims he’s just a billionaire, I swear he’s a trillionaire.

Willow’s hands run along the edges of the case; she shakes it once, trying to lift the top. Her cereal skirt rides up with the movement, and I can see her round ass peeking beneath the Foot Loops mascot. Fuck she looks so goddam delectable; her tiny waist is on display, and I can see she has fucking back dimples. My cock swells against my makeshift bubble wrap shorts as I imagine how perfect those divots are for my thumbs to fit into when I rail her from the back.

If it weren’t for that thought, she wouldn’t have heard the bubble wrap pop.