Page 1 of Man of Lies (Vendetta Kings #2)

Chapter One

MASON

The metal cot creaked under me like it was about to give up on life.

Couldn't blame it—I felt the same.

The mattress was thin enough to count as a form of penance, and the springs jammed into the base of my spine just hard enough to remind me that I'd hit rock bottom.Again.

The air in the storage room was stale and smelled faintly of dust, sweat, and old booze.Overhead, a single bulb drifted on a stripped wire, filling the room with weak light that illuminated every flaw:the scuffed concrete floor, water-stained walls, and a desk strewn with a graveyard of scattered tools and empty beer bottles.

The Dead End wasn't a place that improved anyone's life, but I kept crawling back for reasons I couldn't explain.It wasn't much, just a biker bar filled with outlaws and mean drunks, but the chaos drowned out the noise in my head.

Some days, that was enough.

A muffled crash thudded against the wall, followed by the sharp tinkle of breaking glass.A low rumble of voices rolled in beneath the mournful whine of good ol' Southern rock spilling from the jukebox.

I lay flat on my back, staring at the ceiling until my vision blurred.The bridge of my glasses pinched, but I didn't bother fixing it.I'd told Silas I just needed a place to crash—which was mostly true.

What I hadn't told him was why.

I hadn't explained that the noise in my head was too loud tonight, or that the home I shared with my brothers felt so big and airless, I could barely breathe.

Eden House was meant to be a Beaufort family legacy, passed from one generation to the next—but Boone had no blood heirs, just a stubborn streak and a house too big for one man.Rather than see it handed off to the state, or worse, some distant cousin who'd never stepped foot in Louisiana, he'd left it to us instead.A pack of strays with his name on our adoption papers and nowhere else to go.

For a man who'd spent his childhood hopscotching between trailer parks, barely one step ahead of CPS, Eden was too big, quiet, and full of a past that didn't belong to me.Stately arches, polished floors, sprawling grounds…on paper, it had everything my brothers and I wanted.Wealth. Permanence. A place to belong.But I'd never been able to shake the feeling that we were just borrowing it, living in the remnants of someone else's history.

Sometimes, it was just easier to leave.

No one asked why. Not my brothers, and sure as hell not Silas.That wasn't his way. He just took one look at the strain on my face, pointed to the storage room at the back of the bar, and told me to lock the door behind me.

I liked to pretend I kept coming back because of the lack of questions, but I'd never had a talent for lying to myself.

I came here for him.

Silas McKenna was a problem I didn't need—and one I couldn't shake.

I found him the way I find all my trouble—by accident, with a bit of bad luck thrown in.My bike had decided to betray me at the worst possible moment.A brand-new fire engine red Ducati Panigale V4, all sleek lines and brutal speed, and it still managed to stall out like a temperamental show pony, thanks to some bullshit with the quickshifter.It left me stranded on a sweltering Louisiana highway, cursing Italian engineering,and torn between pushing the bike to the shade of a nearby lot or sticking around to watch a python slither across the pavement.

Silas stood behind the bar, lazily dragging a rag across the counter, all broad shoulders and long legs.Built like he knew how to take a punch but was better at throwing them.The permanent scruff darkening his jaw only added a careless charm to his easy, lopsided grin—the kind that said he didn't take a damn thing seriously.Least of all me.

"You buy that thing to ride or pose with it?" he drawled, glancing at my bike through the window.

I hated him instantly. Until I didn't.

Our dynamic hadn't changed in the past two months.Silas: the biker ex-con, chaos wrapped in denim and leather, driving me up the wall with his smartass attitude.And me: the uptight lawyer, fully aware I should stay away but unable to resist.Every few weeks, I found myself walking back through the door,tossing out some excuse about needing a place to crash, then locking myself in the back room he kept for drunks too far gone to drive.

Now, instead of sleeping, I lie there counting heartbeats while the last person I needed to be tangling with lingered on the other side of the door.Talking. Teasing. Saying things I didn't want to hear but couldn't stop listening to.

"Door's still locked, counselor," he called, his lazy drawl making the flimsy barrier between us feel paper-thin."You know, if you wanted privacy, you could've stayed home."

"Go away, Silas. I'm trying to sleep."

His laugh was a slow, knowing rumble that slipped under my skin and stayed there."You didn't come here to sleep."

No. I hadn't. That was the problem.

"Still playing hard to get?" The question was all smoke and whiskey."We both know this locked door is just for show.If I really wanted in, you wouldn't stop me."

My jaw was locked so tight my teeth ached.His sandpaper rasp was doing things to me, stripping my self-control down to raw nerves.I clenched the metal frame of the cot, sweat slicking my palm, wound so tight I half-expected my bones to creak under the pressure.It would take nothing—just a flick of my belt, a hand shoved down my pants—but no matter how quiet I was, he'd know.Somehow, he always knew.

"Silas," I ground out, hating the crack in my voice."Go back to the bar."

He didn't. Of course, he didn't.I was so attuned to his presence that it was easy to pick up the scrape of his boots when he shifted.

"You've been working too hard.All those late nights. All that stress winding you up.Bet you've got a knot somewhere." His voice dipped, rich with promise, and I could almost feel his fingers at the base of my neck.Warm. Callused. Knowing. "Wouldn't take much to work it out for you, counselor."

He wasn't wrong. The grind of deadlines and late nights had dominated my life for years.If I slowed down, even for a second, everything I juggled would come crashing down.It was all I knew. All I allowed myself to know.And somehow, despite the gulf of differences between us, he saw it.

"You don't know anything about me," I protested, forcing the words out through clenched teeth.

"Don't I?" His words carried a private thread of amusement, as if he was savoring a joke at my expense."I know you can't stop coming back.I know you lock yourself in that room and hope it'll keep me away.But it never does, does it?"

I squeezed my eyes shut, fighting a surge of helplessness, but it was too late.My control was already slipping.With unsteady fingers, I popped the button on my fly and slid a hand beneath my waistband.I was already so hard it hurt, and a strangled moan caught in my throat.I bit down on my lip to keep the sound from escaping.

But he knew. He always fucking knew.

"Come on, counselor." His low growl ripped up my spine."Open the door."

My tongue stuck to the roof of my mouth, dry as dust.I swallowed hard. The room was stifling.My glasses were fogging, and I shoved them up my nose more roughly than necessary.

"I told you," I hissed, squeezing my swollen length to the point of pain, "I'm tired."

"Tired, huh?" He let the word hang, thick with disbelief."Bet I could wake you up real quick.Or maybe you're not tired at all.Maybe you just don't want to admit what you're really doing in there.Tell me, sweetheart. Do you get off thinking about me when you're all alone?Or do you need me here to push you over the edge?"

I scoffed, dragging my hand from my waistband and white-knuckling the cot's metal frame instead."Don't flatter yourself," I muttered between stiff lips."Whatever you're imagining, it's not gonna happen.This is just a convenient place to crash."

"Bullshit." Just like that, the teasing lilt dropped from his tone, replaced by something cool and certain."You're just scared."

"I don't get scared."

"Pretty boy, you live like you're scared of everything," he drawled mockingly."Scared of screwing up, mostly.Losing control. That's why you come to me.So I can take it from you."

Every scrap of heat left my body in a rush.I sat up abruptly, buttoning my slacks and glaring at the locked door."I don't know you," I said softly."You don't know me."

"Yeah," Silas mused under his breath."That's what makes this fun."

I winced and opened my collar, dragging thick, humid air through my nostrils.He wasn't wrong. That was the worst part.We'd both been dancing around our attraction for too long.

The door creaked slightly, as if he'd leaned against it."I can't promise you much," he said, quieter now, rough in a way that made breathing hurt."But I can promise I'll be good to you.All you've got to do is let me in."

The insane urge to give in crashed over me.I hated how much I wanted it. Wanted him.It wouldn't take much. Just two steps, and I'd be at the door.

Instead, I snatched my helmet from the foot of the cot and yanked the door open so hard that Silas had to catch himself on the frame.

God, he was beautiful. Builtlike a man who never had to ask twice for anything.Worn jeans clung to muscular thighs, stretched tight in all the right places, like they'd been made to fit him specifically.His long, dark hair was tied at the nape of his neck, improbably neat and clean for a man who lived above a divebar.Plenty of older bikers had the look, but it wasn't just anaesthetic on him.It was effortless. No one else wore it quite like hedid.

For a moment, I forgot why I needed toleave.All I wanted was to lean into him and let his strength and warmth seep intome.Steady me. Or maybe drop to my knees, wrap my arms around those powerful thighs, and beg him to put his hands onme.But then his dark eyes met mine, and reality hit me like asledgehammer.

I shoved past him and bolted toward the parking lot.

Humidity slapped me across the face, bathing me in sweat when I steppedoutside.I told myself I wasn't running, but the crunch of my boots hitting gravel said otherwise.

My Ducati waited at the edge of thelot,its sleek lines catching the flickering neon of the Dead End's sign.

The door slammed open behindme."Running won't help, kid," Silas called, laughter threading through his voice.

The Ducati was sleek and aggressive and built for speed. It wasn't the easiest machine, but it responded to me like a well-trainedanimal.Every twist of the throttle was an extension of mywill.I leaned into each curve, allowing the raw power to hum through my bones, drowning out the chaos in myhead.When crashing at the Dead End didn't work, this was my only other option—burning down the back roads, trying to outrunmyself.

Sometimes, I almost believed I could.

Then I caught a flash of light in my sidemirror.Another motorcycle, coming upfast.

My stomach bottomed out.

The bike growled as I pushed it harder, speedometer climbing, yellow line blurring beneath my tires.

But it wasn't enough. It never was.