3. Vogue

The sheets are twistedaround me like they're trying to remind me of last night as I wake up. Thayer has gone, his side of the bed cold, and I'm alone with the dawn light creeping through the blinds. Part of me is glad he left; I need time to adjust to what happened last night—the shift in the dynamic between us, my need for possession of him, and the craving he elicits in me.

My phone buzzes on the bedside cabinet. Lifting it hesitantly, I see it's a message from Aaron. Dad. Aaron. Fuck. Who is he to me now?

Be there soon.

That's it. Nothing more, nothing less. I toss the phone aside and sit up, dragging a hand through my tangled hair before I stand and stretch the sleep out of my bones.

The shower does little to calm the storm in my head. I doubt the reason for this visit will be good. As I dress in simple jeans and a shirt, I pause when I see Thayer's initials carved into my skin between my breasts. What will Quen and Cal think about this?

I glance at the clock—7:45 AM. Moving through the penthouse, I find nothing but silence. Where are the guys? Did they even come home last night? What about Thayer? Has he changed his mind about wanting to be with me? Did my neediness push him away? It makes my heart lurch at the thought of never being with him again. I grab a glass of water from the kitchen and take a seat on the couch to wait.

I'm not left waiting for very long. A knock at the door makes me jump, and I rise slowly to open it. The door swings open to present Aaron McGowan, my father. Even after all this time, it's still weird to think of him that way. He fills the doorway, tall and broad, with a presence that seems to suck the air out of the room.

He's dressed in a tailored suit, the kind that probably costs more than what most people make in a month. His hair, dark like mine, is cut sharp, and his eyes, they're hard, calculating. No smile, no warm greeting. Just the silent assessment of everything I am and everything I'm not.

"Vogue," he says, his voice deep, commanding. It's a sound that expects to be listened to, obeyed without question. "You didn't check before you opened the door."

"What am I meant to say? Who's there? And even if I did, would it make a difference if whoever it was wanted to get in?"

He narrows his eyes and sighs. "How are you?"

"Peachy," I state and step aside to let him in.

"Yesterday—"

"Was a shitshow, but you know what? I'm here, so what is the point in lamenting what could've happened?"

"You're strong, Vogue. Not many people would bounce back from that so quickly."

I shrug. "You don't know me nor what I've had to deal with. I'm a master at disassociating."

Closing the door behind him with a soft click that sounds like a verdict, it's just the two of us and whatever comes next.

"There's disassociating and then there's not dealing," he presses, striding further into the penthouse to take a seat on the couch.

"Don't patronise me. I'm not a child."

He nods slowly. "I guess to me you are."

"Don't even go there," I snap. "Why are you here? To make sure I'm okay after your man tried to shoot me in the head?"

"We need to talk about things, but also, I'm here to tell you that Bigsy was a massive oversight, and it will never happen again. I'm cleaning house."

"What does that mean?"

"It means anyone who doesn't pass the loyalty test is out."

"And by out you mean…"

"Dead."

"Okay, then." I guess I deserved that.

I keep my eyes locked on his, unflinching. Every muscle in my body screams to look away, to break this unbearable tension that comes with his scrutiny. But I don't. I can't because, more than anything, I need him to see me as an equal, not just the daughter he abandoned.

"Moving on," he starts. "You're aware of the Syndicate's influence, aren't you?"

"Of course," I reply, my voice cold and even.

"We control more than just petty crime in this city. Our operations extend to the highest levels. We manipulate the market, we sway political decisions, and yes, we have a firm grip on Crestmont University. Everything runs through us. Drugs, gambling rings, you name it. The profits are substantial."

"Drugs?" I latch onto the one thing which is a hard no for me.

"Drugs."

"Fuck," I mutter, shaking my head.

"Not everything in this world is going to be something you approve of, Vogue. I'm not here for your permission to run my business how I want to, nor do I care for your judgement."

"Wow," I state, crossing my arms. "Who said anything about wanting you to change what you do?"

"I can sense it in your tone."

"Well, sense this… I hate drugs. I've seen what they can do, and I won't be part of making or selling them."

"Then we have a problem."

"How so?"

"It's time you learned how to thrive in this world. There is no turning back the clock. You're in it, and I'm here to ensure you move on the correct trajectory."

"To do what exactly?"

"Take over one day."

I snort in amusement, but he isn't laughing. "You're not joking."

"Do I look like I am? It's a legacy. One you were born into without knowing, but here you are."

"Legacy." The word hangs between us, heavy with implication.

His eyes scrutinise me like I'm an asset, and he's assessing me for potential flaws. "You're my daughter, and whether you were raised in Westfield or here in Crestmont, the blood that runs through your veins is a testament to a lineage of power."

"Power," I repeat, feeling the room spin slightly. It has nothing to do with the slight hangover that is kicking in now that I'm on my feet with nothing in my stomach since I can't even remember when.

"The Syndicate needs a successor, someone sharp, cunning, and adaptable." He pauses, clearly choosing his next words with care. "You."

"Me."

"You're not ready yet. But you will be. I'll see to that."

I swallow hard, my mind racing. This isn't just a crossroads; it's a precipice. Jumping means falling into an abyss from which there's no climbing back.

"Think of the power you'd wield," he continues, watching me closely. "The fear you'd command. No one would dare cross you, hurt you. You'd never feel scared or vulnerable again."

My chest tightens. Power. Protection. They're seductive promises, ones that whisper to the darkest part of me that has clawed its way through life, fighting for every scrap of success and security.

"Money," I say because it's easier to focus on the tangible than the terrifying reality of what he's proposing. "Control."

"Exactly. All within your grasp. All you have to do is say yes."

Yes. It's such a simple word, but it feels like a pact with the devil himself. Yet, as I stand there, staring into my father's eyes, I can't deny the pull of the dark tide.

"Say you'll consider it," he presses.

"I'll think about it. But I need time. This isn't something you can just spring on me, and I'll fall into line because you want me to."

"No, but I think you want it too. You are living here with these men who are as deep in this shit as I am. If you didn't feel some connection to this, you would've run a mile by now."

I nod, not trusting my voice, because even now, as I grapple with questions of morality and consequence, I know the truth.

I want the power. I want the money. And I never want to feel afraid again.

But at what cost?

"Protection. Power. They come at a price," I say, trying to steady my voice. "Am I supposed to just accept that?"

"Price implies purchase. This is inheritance. Your birthright."

My breath hitches. Birthright. The idea of it sits heavy on my chest, a mantle I never asked for but can't seem to refuse.

"Is this what you really want for me?" I ask. "You seemed so desperate to protect me from it."

"It's not about what I want. It's about what you need to survive, to thrive."

"Survive," I repeat. It's something I've been doing all my life. Thriving, though, that's a new concept. One that's dangerously appealing. "Give me until tomorrow."

He nods and rises, making his way to the door. As he leaves, I'm left with a sense of power coursing through me. It's intoxicating, frightening.

I move to the window, the university brimming with lives I can control, sprawling before me. This is my inheritance, a kingdom of shadows.

With every step I take into this new life, questions swarm me like relentless bees. How deep does the Syndicate's influence run? How much blood stains the money that paid for my education? Each thought is a thread, pulling me toward a truth I'm not sure I want to unravel.

Dad's words linger in the air, heavy with unspoken promises and threats. They weave around me, a net that both cradles and confines.

The door opens again, and I spin to see the guys walking in.

"Hey," I murmur.

"Everything okay?" Callum asks, coming over to me and taking me in his arms.

"Yeah, I guess so."

"Do you have anything you want to tell us?" Quentin says, joining us and taking me from his twin to press his lips to mine, thrusting his tongue deeply into my mouth briefly before pulling back.

I glance at Harry, and then my eyes shoot to Thayer and linger.

"Thayer and I fucked last night," I blurt out.

Quen blinks but then frowns. "Okay. What does that have to do with anything?"

"This." I undo the button on my shirt and show them the raw carving on my skin.

Quen hisses and turns to Thayer, his face furious. "You marked her?"

"Like you wouldn't have given half the chance," Thayer says without a shit to give. "You weren't there, you don't know how it went down. It was dark, dirty, depraved. She wanted me to possess her, and now I do."

My heart thumps as we fall into a standoff.

There's a raw edge to Thayer's words, a possessiveness that should scare me but instead sends a thrill down my spine because it's exactly how I feel about him. About all of them. This is the darkness I've been flirting with, the power play I'm stepping into willingly.

Quentin's grip tightens on me, and he looks down into my eyes. "Did you want this?" His voice is low, dangerous.

I nod, meeting his gaze. "Yes."

A muscle ticks in Quentin's jaw and Harry leans against the wall, his expression is unreadable but his eyes intense.

"You're playing a dangerous game," Quentin says, voice tight.

"Isn't that what we do here?" I counter with a defiance that feels both reckless and true. "Play games with high stakes?"

Callum moves in closer. "Marking you binds you to us even more. To this life." His voice is a warning.

"I know." My voice is steady even as everything inside me whirls chaotically.

Thayer steps forward, unrepentant. "She is mine. If you want her the same way, do what I did. Take her, claim her, possess her."

Quentin doesn't need telling twice. He draws his blade, and my breath hitches. He places his hand on my chest and shoves me gently back against the window. He slides the blade into my shirt, gliding it all the way down so the buttons pop off in all directions.

He takes my bra, pulling the fabric up and he slices it away from me, his gaze never leaving mine.

The cold blade skims my skin, and I'm caught between a gasp and a moan. Quentin's eyes are dark, filled with need—a desperate clawing hunger for ownership and surrender.

"Tell me you want this," Quentin demands, his voice rough.

"I want it," I breathe out, the admission as sharp as the knife he wields. The bra falls away, and I stand bare before them, exposed in more ways than one.

Quentin doesn't mark me—not yet. Instead, his mouth crashes down on mine, his kiss branding me with a ferocity that makes clear his intentions. His grip is iron. I'm clay in his hands – malleable and desperate to be shaped by his will.

He pushes me back, the knife close to my skin again as he carves his initials above Thayer's in a quick motion that stings and leaves me breathless.

"Mine," he growls.

"Yours," I pant.

Quentin hands the knife to Callum, who steps in front of me when Quen moves aside. He presses the tip to my skin underneath Thayer's mark and etches ‘CW' into my skin.

I whimper when he steps back, handing the knife to Harry, who gives me a wicked smile. "Feeling a bit left out, sugar."

"Our time will come," I murmur. "Claim me now, and the rest will follow."

He holds the knife to my skin and carves his initials into me before he leans forward and swipes his tongue over the cuts. I gasp at the hedonistic action and then moan into his mouth when he presses his lips to mine, forcing me to taste my own blood on his tongue. As first kisses go, it's one that will go down in the books as erotic as fuck, and it makes my pussy twitch with need so raw, so primal, that I feel like I might combust. Harry's touch is sin itself, promising the kind of pleasure that blurs lines and breaks down walls.

I'm marked now, owned by these men in a way that the outside world can't understand. Their initials etched into my flesh are a silent declaration of their claim over me—a claim I've accepted and crave.