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Chapter One
Walker
A figure looms beside my bed in the dark.
With an ease borne of practice, my hand slips under my pillow to the cold steel waiting there. As my fingers wrap around the grip, I lift the weapon, leveling the barrel at the intruder as my heart jackhammers behind my ribs. Who dares come into my home?
The click of the safety is deafening in the silence and adrenaline pickles white-hot across every inch of my skin. But the dark figure doesn't move, doesn’t so much as breathe, and I blink away the blur of sleep, my finger on the trigger, my mind daring the silent figure to do something, anything.
And as my brain wakes, I realize there’s nobody there. I’m trying to kill a dream, a shadow in a life I’ve long since left behind. But even though it’s just a dream, a ghost of my past, my body doesn't know the difference.
My gaze trails from the barrel of the gun to my hands and up my arms, studying the tattoos that tell the tale of who I was. But I’m not that person anymore.
I sit up, the sheets falling away to pool at my waist, my breaths coming hard and fast. Sweat beads on my forehead, and I click the safety back on. Then, with careful hands, I set the gun on the nightstand with a heavy clunk. I rake an adrenaline-shaken hand through my hair.
“Dammit,” I say, the word sharp as I try to bring myself out of the headspace that’s demanding I kill… or be killed. “I’m not that guy anymore. That’s not my life anymore.”
The silence of my mansion rings like sirens in my ears and I study my tattoos, remembering how I’d earned each one. Now, they’re just a reminder of the distance between who I was and who I've become. Once, I lived for my brotherhood of the streets, the adrenaline of the next fight, the next score. But that life is a closed book, with chapters written in blood and sealed with the promise of death if I didn’t escape that life.
I force my muscles to relax, each exhale and inhale easing the tension knotting every inch of my body. I skim the tattoos, my map of survival and loss. I wasn't that person anymore—the gang member who survived by being quicker, tougher, more ruthless than the rest. I’d traded bullets for board meetings, violence for venture capital. The streets knew me as a ruthless enforcer; now, I wield a different kind of power.
They hadn’t been willing to let me walk away. They’d come for me, and I made them wish they hadn’t. Some habits don’t die. Like sleeping with a gun under the pillow or tucked between the mattresses. Like waking from a dead sleep with the feeling someone is about to blow me away… but not if I get them first. Nowadays, my name alone is enough to deter any would-be challengers. But the taste of paranoia still lingers like bitter coffee.
The coolness of my room takes the edge off the sweaty heat of my body, and I realize that the morning sun is beginning to filter through the curtains, streaks of gold highlighting random strips of the hardwood floor.
I stand, pushing back the covers, the cool air of the room pressing in close to my bare skin. I’m safe. The empire I've built might as well be a fortress - within these walls, I’m untouchable. Yet, the memories of my past are a reminder that no amount of money can buy peace of mind.
I stride toward the bathroom, my bare feet making no sound on the cold floor. In the bathroom, I turn on the shower, determined to wash the night and the sweat from my skin. After a quick rinse, I dress and make my way back into my room.
I need an escape. And I know just the place - my farm just outside of town. I can spend some time with my grandparents and just relax from the pressures of work for a while.
My thoughts drift to the farm I own just outside the city, where the impossibly green grass smelled like sweet summers and the air isn’t tainted with the scent of old money and new sins. I want to be there. I need that fresh air, space to think—space to breathe.
The sudden rustle of sheets snaps me back to reality, and I turn to see the two women entangled in my bed, their limbs all curves and softness. The sound of their whispers and kisses meet my ears and have my body responding.
The redhead straddles the blonde’s hip, their lips meeting. I’m not even sure they notice me drinking in the sight of their tangle of limbs and tousled hair. The redhead’s eyes sparkle with mischief as she traces her companion’s curves, tossing me a hungry glance. Their actions are a private show just for me.
“Stay... play with us,” the redhead asks in a sultry tone.
The primal instincts that never quite left me stir with a deep-seated need to relieve the ache building inside me. Memories of last night's encounter are fresh in my mind. And, for a fleeting moment, I’m tempted.
I could join them again, lose myself in their sweetness and forget my dreams and my start to the day. But something holds me back. Maybe it’s the call of the countryside or maybe it’s the realization that this, all of this, is just another illusion of intimacy. None of this is real.
“Join us,” the blonde says, her hand reaching out, fingers grazing the empty space where I’d gotten out of bed.
“Another time, ladies,” I say, the tone of authority in my voice leaving no room for argument.
I leave them with a wink, a promise that next time, perhaps, I won't be so quick to walk away.
As I close the door on their disappointed sighs, I know that no number of women in my bed can fill the emptiness within me. But on the other side of the door, the world awaits—the vast empire I had built from the ashes of my previous life.
But even as I walk forward, part of me wonders if the emptiness that gnaws at my insides will ever truly be filled, or if it’s just the price paid for my sins.
The aroma of freshly ground coffee fills my nose as I make my way down the marble hallway.
Morning light pours in through floor-to-ceiling windows, splashing light on the furnishings I hadn’t bought in a room I spend no time in. The bright place is a direct contradiction to the dimly lit rooms of my past.
“Good morning, Mr. Blackthorne,” Charles, my house chef, says with a respectful nod as he hands me a steaming cup of coffee. The rich scent is intoxicating, far from the bitter sludge I’d been introduced to when I first started drinking coffee. This is one detail that never fails to remind me of how far I've come.
