Chapter 3Her Broken Pet Bites Back

The next morning, Camille sat across from me at the marble dining island, picking at an avocado toast with precise, icy movements.

"My father’s birthday gala is tomorrow evening," she said, not looking at me. "You will be dressed properly, you will arrive on time, and you will not cause an incident."

I took a slow sip of black coffee, letting the memories of Edward Townsend surface.

Camille’s father was a man who hid his cruelty behind piety. He attended church every Sunday, but took immense pleasure in making my predecessor spend hours in the unheated basement library in mid-December, copying out family genealogies and legal trusts until his fingers were swollen with chilblains and he couldn't hold a fountain pen.

Whenever he complained, Camille would merely say, "Father is only teaching you grace because he cares."

Cares? If that was love, she was welcome to keep every drop of it.

I set the mug down with a soft clink. "Sure. What’s the appearance fee?"

Camille’s fork froze mid-air. "Excuse me?"

I leaned back, resting my wrists on the counter. "Wiring my account five figures, or tomorrow night I show up to your family’s private country club in gym shorts and a stained tank top. Let the entire high-society board see how rustic the Townsend son-in-law really is."

She glared at me, her chest heaving slightly, the muscles in her jaw working overtime until she finally hissed through her teeth: "...Fine."

From the end of the breakfast bar, Keegan let out an exaggerated, airy snort, leaning forward with his good arm. His bad wrist was wrapped tight in an expensive gray splint.

"What’s with the sudden attitude, Dean? You haven't been acting like yourself lately. You don't have someone else keeping you company on the side, do you?"

The dining room went instantly arctic.

Camille’s face darkened, her eyes narrowing into cold slits as she turned on me. "Dean. Let me make something abundantly clear. You do not disrespect this family with some cheap affair."

I turned my head toward Keegan, my voice dropping an octave. "You like having a working tongue, Keegan? Because if you keep flapping it, I can pull it out through your neck."

Keegan’s face drained of color. He shrank back into his chair, pressing his splinted wrist protectively against his chest, refusing to meet my gaze.

I stood up, wiping my mouth with a linen napkin, and smiled down at Camille. "Transfer clears, I’m there in black tie. Transfer doesn't clear, I crash the party in flip-flops."

Twenty minutes later, my phone chimed with an alert: "Deposit confirmed: $50,000."

By two in the afternoon, I was stretched out on a leather massage table at an upscale sports rehabilitation clinic downtown. This body had spent three years absorbing physical neglect and chronic stress; if I was going to survive the circus tomorrow night, I needed the machine running at peak performance.

I was half-asleep, listening to the ambient water sounds, when a sharp sting flared at the base of my neck.

A cold, heavy liquid rushed into my bloodstream before I could even draw a breath.

My eyes snapped open. I tried to swing my arm off the table, but my muscles felt like damp cotton wool.

"Sedative. Fast-acting."

When the fog finally lifted, I was sitting in a rusted steel chair in the center of an abandoned industrial warehouse, heavy-duty nylon cargo straps binding my forearms and ankles to the metal frame.

"Look who’s finally awake," a voice sneered from the shadows.

Keegan stepped into the yellow light of an overhead bulb, crouching down in front of me and patting my cheek with mocking familiarity.

"Tough guy Dean," he whispered, his eyes bright with feverish excitement. "So you can throw a punch. What good does it do you now?"

I flexed my forearms. The industrial ratchets didn't give an inch.

"Keegan," I rasped, my throat raw. "Did you actually lose the last three brain cells you had left? You kidnapped Camille Townsend's husband."

He threw his head back and barked a laugh. "Husband? You think you’re family to her? Camille believes whatever I tell her to believe. We’re soulmates. We’re blood."

Before the echo of his voice faded, he raised his heavy leather boot and brought the heel down hard onto the back of my hand.

Pain shot up my arm like liquid fire, grinding bone against the steel armrest. I bit the inside of my cheek until copper filled my mouth, but I didn't give him a sound.

Keegan’s lip curled. He walked over to an overturned wooden crate, picking up a heavy aluminum baseball bat.

"Let’s see how long that stoic routine lasts."

The metal whistled through the air and slammed straight into my floating ribs.

A low, involuntary grunt tore out of my throat, and blood bubbled up behind my teeth.

I lost track of time after that. The metallic thud of the bat against bone, the dull ache in my side, the relentless drone of his voice. Eventually, Keegan lowered the bat, panting heavily, his eyes dilated with manic glee.

"I’ve already written the headlines for tomorrow morning," he chuckled, tracing the cold tip of the bat along my jawline. "'Townsend Son-in-Law Caught in Seven-Woman Penthouse Orgy.' 'Violent Ex-Con Husband Assaults Innocent Socialite in VIP Lounge.'"

He tilted my head up.

"The whole world is going to know you’re a manic, violent freak who can’t keep his hands to himself. The Townsends won't have a choice. To protect the brand, they’ll have you committed to an offshore psychiatric ward."

He laughed until he was practically choking on his own spit.

"And I’ll finally step into the spot you stole from me."

I drew a long, rattling breath through my broken nose, spat a mouthful of dark blood onto his designer sneakers, and smiled.

"Keegan," I whispered. "The second I get out of this chair, you’re a dead man."

Keegan froze, the grin twitching on his face. Then he let out another shrill, nervous laugh. "Get out? With what, Dean? With what?"

He backed away, clapping his hands twice toward the loading dock.

From the shadows, five heavily built women in cheap leather jackets stepped forward, their expressions cold and predatory.

"Have fun with him, ladies," Keegan said, turning toward the corrugated metal exit. "Make sure the camera gets every angle."

I let my head drop forward, letting the blood drip silently onto the concrete floor.

Behind the curtain of my hair, I licked the copper from my lips.

"My turn."