Chapter 1

The gunshot is deafening.

The sound echoes in the quiet morning just before the screeching cries from a flock of quail fleeing the scene of a murder pierce the eerie silence.

I'm still standing.

For the brief millisecond as the rifle ricochets in my hands, time freezes, the seconds suspending in an alternate dimension. My breath lodges in my throat as goosebumps prickle my forearms, already glistening with a thin layer of sweat.

The damp fog in the waning twilight, the skies lightening from dark navy to pale blue as the sun announces its arrival, all seem sharper and more visceral.

In this instant, I stare at nature in its eyes, not knowing if I'll be the person left standing.

To conquer or be conquered.

But I feel so damn free. Alive. Unapologetically honest.

A wide grin splits my lips. I savor the high streaming in my veins and I can finally breathe.

The beast inside me roars. For a few blessed minutes, it's uncaged, unchained, untethered. It can run, it can escape, it can raze the fields to its heart's content.

This motherfucking boar, with an impressive set of razor-sharp tusks, a beast twice the size of the normal wild hogs I've hunted in the past, is now a dark clump in the distance.

"Good job, Ryland. Waking up before dawn paid off, eh?" Jerome, my trusted hunting guide of fifteen years, gives me a terse nod before raking his weathered, tanned hands over his shaggy blond hair. I flew him out here to California from back home in New York just for this hunting trip; a rare escape for me.

My lips twitch in a half-smile, sweet satisfaction flooding my insides, mixing with the heady rush of adrenaline. It's a sensation a man can be addicted to.

The hunting. The freedom. The danger of the chase.

The stress I've accumulated in my tight shoulders slowly leaches out of me.

"It's satisfactory," I reply.

"It's good to see you smile finally. I was beginning to think you forgot how to do that."

Jerome and his assistant, a stocky guy who looks no older than twenty, follow me as I amble toward the fallen beast to see if my shot hit front and center.

Two blurry shapes of blue and yellow catch my attention. I glance at the low-hanging branches, finding a curious bird, the sialia currucoides, the mountain bluebird, staring at me with sharp eyes, its vibrant blue feathers a sharp contrast to the browns and greens of the muted valley landscape in the fall. Its partner, the sturnella neglecta, the western meadowlark, with its captivating yellow chest, breaks out into a sweet, melodious song.

The birds cock their heads in unison as we observe each other. They don't seem to care they're in the presence of danger, or how the rules of nature dictate they should flee as I step closer to them. In fact, the meadowlark's song grows louder.

It's as if they're here to say, fuck the rules.

The thought brings another small smile to my face. If I had more time, I'd take out my camera and capture the sighting on film.

The birds fly away, soaring into the free skies. My heart pounds at the flap of their wings.

Riiing.

The shrill sound jolts me from my reverie. After taking the satellite phone out from my pants pocket, I stare at the screen, my grin slipping off my face.

Maxwell.

Swallowing the lump in my throat, I feel the real world sweeping in with the lethality of an assassin, and the invisible tie around my neck choking me again. The duties of being an Anderson offspring, bound to live by the terms of the perpetual family trust set by our forefathers, all shove their way into the forefront.

The gilded cage. The hundreds of years of impeccable Anderson legacy.

But you don't need to answer the phone, Ryland. Technically, I have fifty-three more minutes of freedom left.

But family always comes first.

Jerome whistles, ignoring my buzzing phone. "Look at this motherfucker." His black boot toes the hog on the ground. "Dead center, Ryland. Perfect shot."

He crouches down and eyes the animal. "Too bad for you, buddy. Can't escape fate."

My heart plummets, my fingers shaking as I hold the vibrating phone in a death grip.

Can't escape fate.

Life has a way of curling invisible chains around your hands, dragging you off to a predetermined fate, and no amount of kicking and screaming will set you free.

The thought sobers me, and I blow out an exhale, my breath coming out in a white plume. The wild boar, a large beast that terrorized the rest of his herd and strutted around like the king of the grasslands a little while ago, is still, its beady eyes unfocused toward the clear blue sky, facing a freedom he'll no longer experience.

It's another futile attempt for me to rewrite history.

The small scar on my right eyebrow flashes in phantom pain. A reminder all freedom comes at a cost. There are often unforeseen circumstances.

I stare at the dead hog.

I won. You lost. Again.

The victory is hollow. For the first time, the thrill of the hunt is short-lived. Muted. The sharp, serrated knife has finally dulled at the edges after years of use. It still cuts, but with more effort and energy, the satisfaction of the knife slicing through thick slabs of meat like butter no longer there.

The buzzing of the phone stops and begins again.

I shake my head to dispel the thoughts. Breathing deeply, I press answer. "Miss me already? I've only been gone for two weeks."

Maxwell's deep chuckles come across the line and I crouch down, pull out twines of rope and other supplies, and prepare the hog for our descent back to base camp. My fingers deftly tie the rope around the boar in a combination of clove hitch and square knots, the motions as natural to me as breathing. It's a ritual I have every time I make a kill. I need to be the one to prepare the carcass, to pay my respects, the least I could do to honor the fallen prey.

He murmurs, "Just checking to see if the wilderness has finally gotten to you. I don't understand your fascination with hunting. It's barbaric, not to mention dangerous."

"Says the man who regularly risks his life racing motorcycles and fast cars. Pot calling the kettle black, don't you think?"

Finishing up, I step back and motion to Jerome and his assistant. They can do with the meat whatever they want. I don't care. It's always about the thrill of the chase for me. I know they will redistribute the meat to other people as they always do after each hunt. Slinging my sleek Christensen Ridgeline FFT rifle over my shoulders, I hike back toward base camp.

Maxwell stays silent, no doubt reflecting on something I said. We may be fraternal twins, but we're two sides of the same coin. He's the silent, stoic one—a man of a few words, heavier burdens, and I'm the outward face of the family, the epitome of wealth and success.

All smokescreens, fake smiles and even faker charm for press junkets, when all I want to do is snarl at them. But the public eats it all up.

"How's LA treating you? Things aren't the same without you here," Maxwell asks.

I hear the faint sounds of classical music echoing in the background, a song from Puccini's La Bohème, the melody rich and heartbreaking, with the unique scratchiness of the vinyl record playing from our vintage phonograph, and I smile. Maxwell is predictable this way. He must be at the estate, his preferred place of solace.

"I'll be back before you know it. The company will survive without me and the IPO isn't for another year or two."

I kick a pebble on the ground. "And Edmund only needs me to cover for him for his courses for a few months at ULA while he steps away for his family emergency. I'm happy to help. Is everyone doing all right?"

I'd stay behind to teach full-time if life allowed me, if I could shed my heavy cloak of responsibilities. The intoxicating rush of satisfaction when I see my students' eyes sparkle with newfound knowledge is unparalleled.

Academia was a dream I shared with Mom; a woman cruelly taken away from us too soon. And now it's a dream I carry alone.

"Same old shit. Rex is partying it up with some flavor of the week. Ethan is brooding over something, but he's tight-lipped about it, and Lana is in Paris for a business trip. We had a family dinner at the estate last week."

My chest briefly warms as I think about my younger siblings. Despite my resentment toward the obligations of being an Anderson, I love Dad and my siblings with all my heart.

I close my eyes and breathe in the crisp air, which carries a hint of earthiness mixed with fresh morning dew on golden grasses and fallen leaves. The smell of freedom.

I'll never be "just Ryland," but out here, somewhere near Bitterwater Valley in Central California, I'm as close to him as I can be.

I clear my throat. "You should go out more, Maxwell. Stop holing yourself up at the estate or The Orchid. We're only thirty-five, not eighty-five. Live a bit for yourself."

The phonograph clicks off and silence fills the line. His voice is quiet when he replies, "You know I don't get a lot of choice in my life. Solitude is the one thing I get to choose for myself. I'm happy, Ryland, all things considered. And Fleur is successful, isn't it? Even if the CEO is in the shadows, our profits have doubled over the last five years and will only continue to grow after the IPO."

"But you aren't truly living." A weight settles firmly on my chest. You're a fucking hypocrite, Ryland.

"I'd say the same for you, hypocrite," he whispers back.

Damn twin-sense. We may be separated by miles, but I swear there are moments when I think he can still hear my thoughts.

I force out a chuckle, my fingers playing with a twig from the ground. "What on earth are you talking about? I am living. Ryland Benedict Reginald Anderson, famous second son and face of the affluent Anderson family, chief operating officer of Fleur Entertainment Holdings, the largest hospitality conglomerate in the world by day, adjunct professor by night, impeccable reputation, women fawning over me left and right. The world is at my fucking fingertips."

The twig snaps in my hand, and I swallow the bile making its way up my throat.

My fingers trace the dark leather bracelet around my wrist, knowing its twin is on the same arm of the caller on the phone. "I'm the fucking opposite of you."

"Why the public fawns over you with your surly ass personality is anyone's guess."

"It's part of the charm."

He snorts. "But you aren't happy. Don't bother lying to me. I only wish you'd tell me why."

"You think too much."

He laughs. I can imagine his smug smile, a rare expression transforming his cold face into something resembling a living being. His Majesty is the beautiful frigid king, his nickname from the press, even though they don't have any interactions with him despite their attempts. Even so, they want to know all about the mysterious CEO of our family business.

Clearly sensing I won't tell him anything else, he changes the subject. "You ready for the press conference tonight?"

"As ready as I'll ever be. The jet is waiting for me now." I wish you could take on the press sometimes. It's fucking exhausting. This entire life is fucking exhausting. But I don't say the words aloud.

"Good luck. I'll be tuning in. Don't fuck up, brother. We need all the good press we can get for the IPO. You know what's at stake. Counting on you."

A rustling sound interrupts my conversation and I turn around. Jerome and his assistant grin as they haul the large hog, now hanging from a sturdy stick. My chest pinches as I'm ensnared by the lifeless eyes of the dead animal, bringing up a faded memory of another beast in my past, one that almost took my life if it weren't for Maxwell.

I owe it to him. In more ways than one.

The scar on my eyebrow pinches again.

A lump forms in my throat and I close my eyes, letting my mind drift back to the time I got the aching scar.

The large boar charging toward me, its tusks gleaming in the sunlight, its eyes cold with fury.

Dad's loud holler which echoed from far, far away.

Maxwell darting in front of me, pushing me out of the way as the boar hurled itself at us.

Screams. Echoes. Pain. So much pain.

Gunshot.

I owe him. Be brave.

I reply to Maxwell, my voice hoarse, "Never. It'll be another win for the family."

Family first. Always.