Chapter 1

Ten yearsago - Age 25

"Simon! I'm home," I call as I enter my mother's ancestral home.

The vast, thick wood doors slam shut behind me. When I lived here with my family, a butler always met us at the door. I swore the old man waited and watched out the window for us to arrive because we never once opened the doors ourselves.

Stopping at the hall table just outside the library—a room I'll always consider my grandfather's; his memory infuses every surface—I pick up the post. Among the rest o' the envelopes, I find a thick, nondescript letter. I toss all o' it but the one that captured my attention back into the bowl. Simon says that is the place for such things. I lived in this house for most o' my life, and nae once realized there was a place for the mail, but I dinnae argue with Simon. My dad told me once a happy wife meant a happy life, and while Simon isnae my wife, I figure it still holds true.

I head into the library, tossing my coat on an armchair. Simon'll yell at me for sure, but I cannae let him wear the pants all the time. Sitting behind my desk, I flip the parcel over several times, testing its weight. There's nae anything on it, but it's heavy.

Shrugging my shoulders, I open it.

Tucked inside the outer envelope, I find another addressed to my father from his father, who we were to spend Christmas with the year my life went to hell.

Swallowing back the trepidation I feel at the thought o' what I'll find inside, I open it carefully.

Life as I know it ceases to exist.

As I pour over the contents o' the package, the trepidation I felt before opening it swells into a sea o' emotion that chokes me. My stomach is in knots, and the paper in my hands rattles from the shaking I cannae control.

I've been told for years my parents and sister died in a car crash. Yet the missive I'm holding leads me to believe something verra different.

Dear Son,

I have come across information that is highly disturbing. Included with this letter are documents and photographs regarding several missing young men and women and the people responsible. Some of these children are as young as twelve or thirteen. They are from countries around the world and are underprivileged and sometimes are homeless or orphaned.

I have found that they are being bought and sold to the highest bidder. I shudder to think what these children are going through. My heart hopes they are going to decent families who only wish to provide them with a home, but I am not that na?ve, and my gut refuses to let my heart deny the truth.

I will take this information to the authorities as soon as I post this letter to you, but I don't know who to trust, so that is why I am sending it to you. I am afraid my discovery of this information has come to the attention of those responsible or in the know. I know I can count on you to get it into the right hands if things go awry.

Dillon, I pray I have not placed you, Cora, and the children at risk, but I couldn't stand by and let them get away with this depravity.

Your mother and I are looking forward to seeing you all for the holiday. I hope this letter arrives after you have left Scotland for Sweden. I do not wish to tarnish the time I get to spend with the four of you with the sickness contained within these pages.

Your loving father,

Carl.

Looking at the postmark on the inner envelope, the letter, along with all the paperwork before me, went out in the post to my father just days before he, my mum, and sister died. My grandfather, Carl, and grandmother, Arabella, died on the date he mailed the package. A gas main exploded, leveling their home and all the surrounding homes. The explosion took out a city block in every direction, killing my grandparents and many others. I remember the police informing me o' their deaths as I left my parents' and sister's funeral.

It's been nearly ten years since they died, leaving me alone in the world. The devastation o' that day lives on inside me. Closing my eyes, I can still feel the rain on my face and smell the wet earth that permeated the air the day o' my parents' and sister's burial.

"Dray, how long have you been home?"

I open my eyes, and my husband stands before me. We got married a few years ago, a small ceremony that a few friends attended since neither Simon nor I had any family.

"Not long," I tell him.

I'd been out most o' the day dealing with the running o' the estate and meeting with local officials about various matters. The death o' my mother's father passed the family estate to my mother, and with her passing, it came to me. After Mum's death, they held it in trust for me until I came o' age.

Simon comes around the desk, stopping next to me and leaning his ass against it. He peers at all the papers strewn about and asks, "What's all that?"

"The truth."

"You're being cryptic, Dray. What's going on?" Simon asks.

I'm not sure how to tell him what I've discovered or what my grandfather discovered, so I hand him the letter from my grandfather.

I watch him read through document after document, his eyes growing wider and wider with every piece o' paper he picks up and casts aside. He reads through some o' them more than once before casting them aside, and he shuffles back through the cast-offs to re-read some o' them several more times.

Finally, he stops and looks at me.

"Is this saying…"

I nod. "That there's a secret society o' wealthy men who traffic drugs, guns, and people and that my family was killed because my grandfather found them out? Yes, that's what I believe those documents are saying."

"Bloody hell, love. What are you going to do?"

"What the fuck do ye think I'm going to do, Simon?" I ask incredulously.

He stares at me. Questions bounce around in his eyes until understanding dawns.

Finally, he asks, "You don't mean…" His question trails off.

I set my jaw, stare up at him, and say, "I'm going to hunt them down. Every last fucking one o' them, and I'm going to gut them like the pigs they are."

"Draven…"

"Nae!" I scream. Indignation and agitation boil through me. My blood runs hot through my veins, and I surge to my feet, slamming my fist onto the desk. Pain shears through my arm, pulsing in my wrist. I cannae believe he thinks I can let this go.

"Take a breath," Simon implores.

"Fuck that shit! I'll nae be talked out o' this, Simon. They killed my family. My whole fucking family is dead because o' these men. This Order o' Death!"

Anger the likes o' which I've nae felt since I was sixteen and my entire family died, leaving me alone in the world, ignites within me and bursts forth. Everything on the desk crashes to the floor as I swipe my hand over it before I storm from the room, slamming the door behind me. The heavy wood bounces off the jamb, cracking the plaster o' the wall when it makes contact.

All those emotions I felt when my parents died nine years ago bubble up from the recesses o' my soul and take hold. I want to hurt something or someone. I want to let my fists fly. That bite o' pain from punching the desktop was just an appetizer. I need more. I want my hands bloody and hurting, my body burning with fatigue and drenched in sweat.

My legs tremble with fury as I stalk out o' the house to the only place I might find the sort o' solace I need on a day like today.

I built in a boxing gym on the property when Simon and I first moved back into the old place. The gym, even though it's just for me and occasionally Simon, has everything, including a ring. Boxing was the only thing besides Simon that got me through those years in the orphanage. It was the orphanage's way o' helping me cope with my grief, and it gave me an acceptable outlet for my rage.

Once inside the building, I flick on the lights and head to the locker room. There's nae anyone to spar with, so it will just be bag work, but that's okay. I wrap my hands but forgo the gloves. I want to feel this for a few days. I want the pain in my soul to fuck off, and I cannae think o' any other way to do it.

Sweat pours from me as I run through a warm-up. My blood pumps furiously, but my thoughts outrace it. Memories flash through my mind like a flickering movie reel.

My grandparents.

My parents.

My sister.

All gone.

I'd been alone until the day I met Simon. Now he is my everything.

My biggest fear after opening that envelope and reading through all the information contained within is losing Simon. It would destroy me, and I'm afraid that's what's coming. They killed everyone I love. What's stopping them from taking Simon from me as well?

That thought twists my guts into knots and turns me inside out. Despair robs me o' my breath, and all strength leaves me. I crumple forward. My bruised and battered hands land on my knees as I gasp for air. I've worked myself into a lather, but exertion isnae the only thing robbing me o' my breath. The thought o' losing Simon, o' being left alone on this earth eviscerates me. I cannae bear the thought.

I must protect him.

That pledge means I must follow through on the threat I threw at Simon earlier. I will find the men listed in my grandfather's letter. I will find them, and then I will kill them.

"If you are set on doing this, you're not doing it alone."

I spin toward the voice that breaks through my panting and thoughts. Simon stands in the doorway, leaning against the frame with his arms crossed over his chest and his legs crossed at the ankle. I dinnae ken how long he'd been there, but if I had to guess, it had been a while.

"I cannae ask that o' ye, love," I tell him.

He walks to me, taking my throbbing hands into his. He pulls the tape loose and unwraps my hands, first one and then the other.

"I'm offering," he says, holding my hands up to the light.

The tsk he makes pulls a smile from deep within. After reading through all the documents my grandfather sent my father, I dinnae think I would ever smile again.

He leads me to a weight bench, pushing me to sit before walking away. I watch him rummage through a cabinet, and when he returns, I see he's gathered first aid supplies. He straddles the bench in front o' me, and I reposition myself to face him.

"I cannae let ye help, Simon. They've taken everyone from me. I cannae let them take ye, too."

"You aren't the boss o' me, Dray. If you're determined to do this, then I'll be damned if you do it alone."

I set my jaw. He's an asshole and as much an alpha as I am. It shocks me as much as it pleases me that we've managed to stay together for as long as we have since we're both tops. I think the only thing that kept us together is Simon's love o' cock. The man is a slut for being stuffed full.

"There are times I wish ye were a good little subbie boy who minded his master," I mutter.

His laughter rang through the gym, echoing and bouncing off the walls.

"You may be the lord and master o' the manor, but you aren't my master, no matter how much I love you."

"Aye, and well I know it."

Simon smiles at me, and I cannae help but smile back. I love the man, body and soul, and though there are things about him that make it difficult, I wouldnae change him for all the world. I just wish he were more submissive. I'm sure he feels the same.

Maybe, if we find someone to share, to complete us and our dynamic, then we'd both be happy.

Six months later, the worry that Simon could be taken from me is astronomical.

"Simon, I want ye to stop digging," I plead.

Since finding the letter six months ago, we've hunted down every scrap o' info. It's not the first time I've asked him to stop. Nae, the weird nagging feeling I get at times that makes me feel like we're being watched has me on edge. A feeling I only get when Simon is with me, leading me to believe that whoever is watching us is nae watching us but him.

And it grows with every passing day.

Simon ignores me, continuing whatever he's doing as if I hadn't said a word, like I'm a ghost.

"Simon," I bark, pissed he disnae even look my way.

He exhales heavily. He turns to look at me, and anger rages within his gaze. The emotion I see in them causes his gray eyes to glint like metal in firelight. This isnae the first time we've fought about this. He knows I willnae stop hunting them, and he willnae step back unless I do.

"I'm not having this conversation again, Dray."

"God dammit!" I scream. "I cannae lose ye, Simon. These people would sooner kill ye than look at ye."

"Do you think I don't know that, Draven? Do you think me daft?" he inquires.

I dinnae respond. Probably nae the best idea. Looking at Simon, I can see it isnae. I can be an idiot at times. I admit it.

That glint that first flashed in his eyes grows into an inferno at my lack o' response until it's a wildfire blazing from the depths o' his soul. The rage vibrating within him flickers, making him look as if he's buzzing.

I open my mouth, but Simon levels a gaze at me, shutting me up.

"You unmitigated bastard. You're an ass. Do you realize that? I don't want to lose you either. If you've fucking forgotten, I'm a goddamn orphan too, so losing you is just as scary for me as losing me is for you. It's out o' the fucking question. I won't let it happen, and that means I'll do everything in my fucking power to make sure it doesn't. Including searching for the people responsible for killing your family."

Again, my mouth drops open to answer, but he cuts me off.

"I love you, Draven, and I understand why you're doing this. I sincerely do, but I'm over this conversation. Get out o' my sight before I punch you in your fucking mouth."

"Simon…"

"Go," he yells. The muscles and tendons in his neck flex, standing out from his throat.

I storm from the house, slamming doors as I make my way outside. Over the last few months, Simon has done the sleuthing shit he's so damn good at while I've done everything I can to prepare physically and mentally. I know he's worried about me. I cannae blame him for being so. I'm worried too, but my worry and his arenae the same. Mine isnae for my own skin, but for his. Every time I've said something to him, he's blown me off.

This argument, the one I'm fleeing, has been the worst yet. I dinnae know what to do. I cannae lose him, but I'm afraid that is where this is all leading. I wish I never shared the letter and papers my grandfather sent with him.

I pace through the gardens, my hands in my pockets and my head down. Before I realize it, I'm walking into the gym. This has been my home for most o' the last six months. It's been the place I train, the place I hide, the place I work out my anger, fear, and frustration.

And lately, it's been the place I retreat to when Simon is being pigheaded. I know he wants to help. I get it, and iffn our positions were reversed, I would be staunchly fixed in the same role he's taken up.

But they arenae reversed, and I cannae rid myself o' the terror that fills my mind day and night. I wake up most nights drenched in sweat and snot and tears, clinging to Simon as if doing so will keep him safe from harm.

I know it cannae, but it is all I have to ward off the demons that stalk me in my sleep.

After yet another long, exhausting workout with a couple o' the sparring partners I've hired to train with me, I head back to the house. The kitchen was my destination. My stomach churned and growled with hunger, yet when I came to the fork in the path back up to the house, instead o' following the path to the kitchens, I chose the one that leads to the side o' the house where the library is. I dinnae know what called me into that room other than that is where I left Simon when he told me to get out.

Sweaty and stinking like one o' the pigs on the farm, I open the French doors to the library, pulling my shirt off as I shut the doors behind me. I expected to see Simon here, but he's nae there. His workspace disnae even look to have been used today, which is strange since when I left the house earlier, there were papers and folders strewn across the top.

I sigh and move across the room toward the hall, hoping to find Simon and apologize for being an ass while pleading my case further. I spy something sitting on my desk. I step toward the desk, my gaze locked on a thick parcel. My name is scrawled across it—the letters sharp and slanted. That's all that's on the envelope. Just my name. Nothing else. Nae addresses or postage.

Something about it has the hair on my neck standing up. A weird, otherworldly feeling creeps through me, raising gooseflesh on my skin as it moves along.

Hesitantly, I reach for the envelope. The feeling o' dread that grows within me overtakes my entire being, replacing every feeling in me with every negative emotion I can think of. Sighing, I run my finger under the tape holding the letter closed.

Reaching inside, I pull out the contents and immediately drop them. I watch everything flutter to the floor as if someone's pressed slow motion on a video. Photos o' Simon litter the floor around me. Some o' us together, but mostly they are just o' him.

When the last o' the papers settle, I read the note that landed on top o' the mess I dropped. The handwriting on the note matches that on the envelope.

The price of your vendetta will be his death.

"Simon!" I scream his name.

My voice cracks on the sharp edge o' the fear that buzzes through me vibrating just under my skin. I race through the house searching for Simon, but he's nae to be found.

"Simon!"

Panic clouds my mind, pushing out all reasonable thought. Emotion chokes me. I trek slowly back through the house, hoping I've just overlooked him. I know I have nae, but I turn every room inside out, anyway.

I stop in the entry hall, pausing for a moment only to head toward the kitchens when the kitchen door bangs shut.

"Simon!" I call out as I run toward the noise.

Oh, dear God! Please, God! Let me find him. Please, let him be okay.