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PROLOGUE

FABIEN

So. It’s gonna be a bare-knuckle fight.

With my opponent watching, I grab the hem of my shirt and pull it up over my head, giving the fabric ample time to slide over my abs and slowly reveal my torso. I’m not usually one for theatrics, but I am allowing myself to indulge in a nice, long show of intimidation here.

I yank the rest of the shirt free and fling it at my feet. Staring at the man opposite, I take a moment to flex and tense my muscles, curl my fingers into a fist, and raise my arms, ready to fight. Bare-knuckle? Yeah, not only am I going to deal with this...

I’m going to enjoy it.

My opponent is like me. An ambitious man desperate to be a member of this elite secret society. And this fight? It’s our way in. Our initiation.

And neither of us is willing to lose.

We’re the same height, but he’s clearly the bigger guy. Not all muscle, but a heavy, solid thickness that dwarfs my own. There’s determination in his eyes and a snarl on his lips.

I’ve prepped for this moment my entire life. I’ve spent years honing my physicality in the gym. I’ve taken multiple beatings. I’ve eaten dirt more times than I can count. I learned to look after myself the day my parents were murdered.

I am a survivor.

And if I fail this initiation into the Castaways, then I am failing my father’s legacy. And failure would also prove her right.

It would make that email she sent me real.

We’re here in the basement of one of the Order’s upstate lodges. A secret estate specifically designed for breaking in initiates. Unlike regular boxing gyms, there’s no padding under our feet. Every step I take is accompanied by a groan of the floorboards. The room is totally bare except for the weapons on display lining the walls. Hunting rifles. Swords. Daggers.

No gloves today for this match. No protection. This is the best way to gauge the true physical measure of a man.

“I heard you’re the son of a dead Supreme Elder,” my opponent mocks as I ready myself. “Did he die like this, or was he curled up in a little ball, whimpering?”

I don’t even know this man’s name. Or what he does. Or why the Castaways want him in their ranks.

All I know is that he is my target.

And he’s just insulted my father.

“I’ve only got one goal in life,” I reply. “And you’re the one standing in my way. You’re nothing to me but a hindrance.”

“And you’re nothing but an orphaned stray,” he spits back.

The words stir something deep in me.

It’s what she called me.

This man has somehow, accidentally, stumbled onto a raw wound. The asshole doesn’t know the fuel he’s lit under me.

I don’t say a thing in response.

But my opponent still carelessly tosses in a last word.

“I’m going to enjoy making you bleed, little guy.”

And then he throws a big swing.

Oh, he’s starting it already? Before we’ve been given the green light?

That’s bold.