Page 4 of Savage Possession (Savage Reign #3)

The stack of papers is about half an inch thick and holds nothing out of the ordinary.

Train cargo and shipping containers are all itemized, value outlined and the company who is shipping in yet another column.

A few have the initials SA scribbled in by hand.

A few more have V beside them. I memorize as much as I can—the numbers, the names, the patterns in the margins that speak to deals being struck in back rooms.

From my vantage, I see the layout of the place. There are rows of stacked containers, my father’s men milling about in dark jackets, and the grimy floodlights flickering over it all.

Movement on the stairs catches my eye. A group of men step into the light. My father leads the way with a tense expression pulling his lips into a tight line. They come close to the limo where I can hear a few words being spoken.

Beside him, I spot a man I don’t recognize.

He’s tall, broad-shouldered, with a permanent scowl etched into his pale face.

His eyes are the coldest blue I’ve ever seen, glinting with a fierce, predatory intelligence.

The chill that rolls off him is nearly physical, and when he turns to speak to one of the guards with a crisp Russian accent.

He carries power like a weapon, and I make a silent vow to avoid him at all costs.

But it’s the other man that makes my blood run colder.

Grudge, president of the Vultures MC, leans against the railing, his arms folded over his leather cut, boots planted wide.

He’s everything my father pretends not to be—brutal, cunning, wild as a hurricane.

The greasy hair, the dark, patchy stubble, the twitch of his jaw as he grinds his teeth around a wad of tobacco.

All of it speaks to a life lived at the sharp edge of survival.

He’s watching my father, but every so often his eyes flick toward the car, lingering like he knows I’m inside, even though he can’t see through the tinted glass.

I press my back into the leather of my seat and force myself to remember I’m safe as long as the doors remain locked.

I look on as the Russian takes the briefcase my father hands him. In exchange, he is handed a thicker one.

It’s money.

I’m not stupid. I know how these people work.

The question is, what has my father sold to get a briefcase full of money?

The Russian says something low, and my father stiffens. Grudge grins, showing off yellowed teeth, the kind of smile that promises nothing good.

“You already know what I want for my part of the deal, Fontaine.”

That’s Grudge.

They all shake hands, and the door opens, and my father slides back into the limo.

His hands are tight on the briefcase, his breathing a little too quick, but he keeps his features schooled into blankness.

He doesn’t speak during the ride home, just stares out the window, lips pressed in a thin white line, his thumb tapping out a nervous rhythm on the armrest.

Home is a plantation house built in the image of old southern royalty, perched on land that’s been in our family for generations.

Oak trees line the drive, their thick branches draped in ghostly strands of Spanish moss, leaves whispering in the humid dusk.

The house is beautiful in a way that feels melancholy.

As we pull up, the wide porch glows with the soft yellow of antique lanterns. The marble stairs are flanked by rose bushes my mother once tended, now wild and overgrown.

Grudge pulls his motorcycle up beside us and kills the engine.

I watch as he ambles up the steps, slouching against a pillar, exhaling a plume of smoke that curls in the twilight.

I turn to my father, my voice gentle. “Are you all right, Father? Are we… all right? What kind of business dealings are these, exactly? Why is that man waiting like he owns the place?”

My father doesn’t answer as he steps from the car and pulls me along with him.

“Everything is fine. Go to your room and prepare for tonight’s dinner party.” The words are as cold as death.

Inside, the house is colder still. The hush is damn near deafening, to be honest. What the hell is going on? My mother’s touches are long gone, replaced with white marble and dark wood. I pause in the foyer, staring up at the crystal chandelier, longing for color, for sound, for life.

I head for the stairs, but my father’s voice stops me. “Be ready for this evening. I had a dress delivered to your suite. You are not to deviate from that option.”

I nod, not trusting my voice. Grayson’s gaze tracks me as I ascend.

My room is exactly as I left it. The white satin dress lies across my bed, its glossy sheen catching the last of the sun.

It’s beautiful, but impersonal, like everything else my father chooses for me.

I pull off my skirt and top and slip the creamy material over my head.

My hair, snow-white and wild, tumbles over my shoulders.

I catch a glimpse of myself in the mirror—blue eyes too bright, freckles standing out against pale skin. I look like a ghost.

On my nightstand sits the book Ash gave me. My heart aches as I trace the cover, sliding out the battered bookmark. Ash’s number is scrawled on the back. I want to call him, to hear his voice, but to what end? I can’t go to him. Not with my father’s thumb holding me down.

I tuck the bookmark under my pillow, as if it might offer a wish, a way out.

Downstairs, the house is filled with shadows. I follow the hum of voices to my father’s office, the heavy oak door open, lamplight spilling onto the rug. The air smells of old books and tobacco, the sharp tang of bourbon poured over ice. I step inside, heart racing.

My father sits behind his desk, jaw set. Grudge sprawls in a chair, boots planted on the rug, cut draped over the arm like he owns the place. Two of my father’s enforcers hover in the corners. Their lips curl like I spit in their beers at lunch.

I pin them with fake indifference before facing my father.

“Father, I’m ready—” I start, voice wavering, but he silences me with a gesture.

Grudge grins, his beady black eyes raking over me. “You said she was smart, but she’s blind to how dirty you are, old man.”

An angry flush hits my cheeks. My father ignores him and I do my best in doing the same. “Tonight isn’t about guests. It’s about you.”

A chill settles in my bones. That doesn’t sound good. Shit. “Oh? I see.” No I don’t, but I know better than to sound contradictory

He doesn’t look up from the papers in front of him. “You’re going to marry this man. It’s best for the family.”

With that realization hits.

“The briefcases? You sold my hand in marriage?” What a low down filthy shitty thing to do.

Heat from the depths of hell scorches my face. Truth be told, it’s eating me up from the inside out. Acid burns at the back of my throat, too. “What’s in it for you? Just the money, that's it? How much?” I pause and take a deep breath. “Why?”

Father lifts his gaze, cold and sharp. “Power. Get the idea of love and fairy tales out of your head. Marriage is a business deal. I’ve invested in you since birth. It’s time to give back.”

I swallow hard, rage and heartbreak mingling. “Mom married you for love. Are you saying she was foolish to love you?”

His eyes narrow. “Fuck yes, girl. What did I just say?”

I dig my nails into my palm, using the sting to keep myself upright. “She’d slap you if she were still alive.”

He laughs, bitter and hollow. “She’d put a blade through my heart if she knew a tenth of what I’ve done since burying her. You’ll do this for the family. Tell yourself it’s in her memory if you must, but in one hour, you’re walking down the aisle to the president of the Vultures.”

“What about the other man? The one with the briefcase?”

“A different part of the same deal, baby.”

Grudge stands, swaggering his lean body in my direction. He reeks of chewing tobacco, leather, and gasoline. His eyes are pits of blackness, his smile a slash of menace. Just like the man.

“No.”

“If you don’t, the bayou gets another body and I take over your empire, anyway. I need your father’s money. He needs my ruthlessness. Win-win.”

I tilt my chin up, voice steady with a force I don't recognize. “Then you two marry each other and leave me out of it.”

His husky laugh has my skin crawling. “Life don’t work that way, little bitch.

Your hand keeps your pops here in line. He wants something only I can provide given my parish is right in the path of his dealings.

And you are my guarantee he don’t fuck me over.

Do your duty or I’ll make you wish you had. ”

I can’t help myself. Sarcasm shields my fear. “It’s “doesn’t”, not “don’t”, moron. And I refuse. There’s no way I would marry you, let alone let you put a hand on me.” Focusing on the menial details is easier than processing my father’s betrayal.

My father rounds the table so fast I don't see the bruising blow coming until I’m wearing the back of his knuckles across my cheek.

“That’s how bitches are put in line.”

Grudge’s putrid breath fills my nostrils and his vile words make my stomach ache. The evil gleam in his dark eyes is all I see when I drag my gaze from my father to him.

My father shoves his hands in his pockets and acts like this is just another day and I’m nobody to him.

“Both of you are pretty trashy pieces of work,” I seethe. I feel a trickle of blood ooze down my cheek, but I leave it be. Its pain is nothing compared to the betrayal of a man who used to cradle me during thunderstorms and tell me there are no such things as monsters.

What a fat, ugly ass lie.

My father sighs, turning his back to me. “I figured you’d find your backbone tonight. I hate to do this to you.”

I take a hesitant step back. “Then don’t,” I counter. I can’t believe his indifference. Or can I? This isn’t the first time he’s shown me his cold side. “You disgust me to the core of my being, but I doubt you give a shit.”

My father gives me a look of pity and I see the flinch of his hand.

His men close in, their steel-fingered grip unyielding on my arms. My heart thrums wild, blood roaring in my ears. They drag me to the parlor, where Father Gregory waits, pale and shaking, his hands twisting in the hem of his robe.

I catch his eye, desperation pouring out of me. “Father, you don’t have to do this.”

His gaze flickers to my father, then to the bible in his hands. “I’m sorry, Isabella. I can’t help you.”

Something snaps inside me. I roll a bare shoulder and straighten my spine. I let my elbows fly. One to the left and another to the right. I didn’t plan it and I have no training in the ways of kicking ass, but I land both blows to the men holding.

There’s a deep satisfaction in the sound of something crunching and then blood running out of their noses.

That’s all I see before I dart for the fireplace. I don’t stop moving until I have my hands around an iron poker. My golf game is as non-existent as my fighting skills, but I swing with every ounce of fury and terror I’ve bottled up for years.

Iron clangs off someone’s arm. I twist free when one of my father’s enforcers lunges for me.

From there everything is a blur as I bolt down the hall, my bare feet slapping marble.

My dress snags on the doorframe as I barrel past my father.

I barely hear the shouts behind me. Instinct and panic pushes me to run faster and forget the pain of rock on my bare feet as I blaze down the front steps.

Outside, the world is dark and slick with humidity. I spot Grudge’s bike, the keys miraculously glinting in the ignition. My lungs are on fire as I hike my shitty dress and throw a leg over the seat.

Something else I’ve never done. But here’s to learning new things on the fly, tonight.

I turn the key and fumble with the gears or whatever they are called. I rev the motor as soon as the engine rumbles to life. I jerk and nearly fall over but a nearby car gives me the leverage I need to right myself and the monster between my legs.

Gravel goes everywhere, and I nearly topple over. A miracle happens and I manage to get the bike going down the driveway to the sound of roars and shouts from the men. Probably Grudge too, but I don’t dare look back.

More gravel flies and the single headlight paints frantic, twisting shadows over the trees as I careen down the drive.

I drive blind, weeping and breathless, for what feels like an eternity—through fields of cane and moss, past the black-glass surface of the sleeping bayou and I don't stop until I am three parishes over from where my father’s mansion stands.

Every mile puts another layer of fear between me and the life I can’t bear to return to.

When I finally pull to a stop, it’s on a side street far from the bookstore. The air is heavy with the scent of coming rain and jasmine, the parish lights a faint flicker along Haven’s main street. I white-knuckle the handlebars. I can’t go home. There’s only one place left to run.

I creep through side roads, and back alleys until I find the only place I might be safe.

The Broken chapter.

Above the back door is a small camera and a little red light that fills me with more hope than I have felt in a long time. I kill the engine and jump off, letting the heavy beast roll another ten feet before it falls over.

Metal scrapes and crunches, and the screeching sound is gloriously satisfying.

Serves the rat bastard biker right for the crap he tried to pull tonight.

Trembling with exhaustion and a pretty healthy dose of adrenaline coursing through my veins, I step up to the door and look directly at the camera with all the hope I can muster that the right person sees me in time.