CHAPTER 1

The heavy iron door groaned, a sound that usually signaled the end of the day. For Zack, it was just another cue for the internal rot to deepen. He sat on the cold granite floor of the Havenfall estate’s basement, his back against the weeping stone.

Eight years.

He hadn't seen the sun in nearly three thousand days. Logan—the man he once called father—didn't believe in mercy, only in chemical chains.

The latch clicked. Logan stepped into the room, the scent of expensive bourbon and stale cigar smoke hitting Zack before the light did. In his hand was a silver flask. No, not a flask. A vial. The nightly dose of the neurotoxin that kept Zack’s body weak and his mind fractured.

"Drink," Logan commanded. His voice was a gravelly rasp.

Zack didn't move. His muscles were lead. "Why?"

Logan lunged, his hand snapping around Zack’s throat, slamming his head back against the wall. Dust puffed from the stone. Zack’s vision blurred into a smear of grey and black.

"Because you're a loose end, Zackary. Your mother's blood... it’s a curse. You think you're special with those eyes?" Logan sneered, leaning in so close his spit hit Zack’s cheek. "One blue, one violet. A freak. A mistake I have to bury every single day."

He forced the vial between Zack’s teeth. The liquid was thick, tasting like copper and battery acid. It burned a path down his esophagus, a searing line of fire that made his stomach cramp into a hard knot.

Logan let go, watching with a twisted sort of pride as Zack slumped, retching. "Don't die yet," Logan whispered, his hand trailing down Zack’s arm in a way that made the skin crawl. "We have guests coming to the city. Ethan Cole is looking for a new toy. Maybe I’ll sell you to him."

The door slammed shut. Darkness returned, heavier than before.

Zack woke to the sound of the lock turning again. But it wasn't the heavy tread of Logan. These footsteps were light, hurried.

The door swung open. A man stood there, silhouetted against the amber light of the hallway. Tall, broad-shouldered, wearing a suit that cost more than a human life. Julian Wright. Logan’s right hand.

"Get up," Julian snapped.

"Go to hell," Zack croaked.

Julian didn't argue. He grabbed Zack by the collar of his rags and hauled him up. Zack’s legs gave out, but Julian caught him, a brief, surprising moment of solid strength against his chest.

"Logan’s drunk. This is your only shot. Cocolink is moving in on the docks. The whole city is a war zone tonight. Move!"

They sprinted—or rather, Julian dragged Zack—through the labyrinthine halls of the Havenfall mansion. The air changed from the smell of damp earth to the sharp, cold bite of a winter night.

They reached the perimeter fence. Beyond the iron bars lay the city, a sprawling neon graveyard of sin and money.

"Why?" Zack panted, leaning against a brick pillar. "Why help me?"

Julian looked at him, his eyes dark and unreadable. "Because Logan is a dead man walking, and I don't like seeing talent go to waste. Run, Zack. Don't look back."

Zack didn't wait. He threw himself into the shadows of the alleyways, his lungs burning, his heart hammering a frantic rhythm against his ribs.

He didn't get far.

The black SUV skidded around the corner, headlights pinning Zack like a moth to a board. He tried to scramble over a dumpster, but his strength failed. The neurotoxin was still in his blood, turning his limbs to water.

Two men stepped out. Massive. Suits. Silent.

"Boss wants him," one said.

Before Zack could swing, a heavy fist connected with his jaw. The world tilted. He hit the pavement hard, the grit scraping his skin. He was hauled up and tossed into the back of the vehicle like a sack of grain.

The interior smelled of leather and expensive cologne. A man sat in the shadows of the far seat, a glass of amber liquid in his hand. Ethan Cole. The king of the Cocolink syndicate.

"So," Ethan’s voice was a low, melodic purr that vibrated in Zack’s bones. "This is the ghost of Havenfall."

Ethan leaned forward, the light catching his sharp jawline and the predatory glint in his eyes. He reached out, his gloved fingers catching Zack’s chin, forcing him to look up.

"You're a mess," Ethan remarked. "But those eyes... they're exactly what I was promised."

"Kill me," Zack spat, blood spray hitting Ethan’s pristine white shirt.

Ethan didn't flinch. He smiled. It wasn't a kind look. "Kill you? No. I’m going to break you. And then, I’m going to make you mine."

The penthouse was a cage of glass and steel. Zack was thrown onto a silk-covered bed, his wrists immediately snapped into leather restraints fixed to the headboard.

"What the fuck is this?" Zack shouted, twisting, the leather biting into his skin.

Ethan stripped off his jacket, tossing it onto a chair. He began unbuttoning his shirt, his gaze never leaving Zack’s. "This is a change of management."

He moved onto the bed, crawling over Zack with the grace of a panther. His weight was a crushing, grounding reality. He pinned Zack’s knees down with his own, his hands sliding up Zack’s bruised ribs.

"Logan didn't appreciate what he had," Ethan whispered, his breath hot against Zack’s ear. "He treated you like a prisoner. I’m going to treat you like a masterpiece."

Ethan’s hand drifted lower, his fingers tracing the waistband of Zack’s tattered trousers. Zack bucked, a desperate, frantic movement, but Ethan slammed him back down, his mouth crashing onto Zack’s in a brutal, hungry kiss. It tasted of salt and dominance.

Zack tried to bite, but Ethan’s tongue invaded, claiming his mouth with a terrifying heat. Zack’s head spun. The pain of the night, the poison, the fear—it all began to blur into a different kind of sensory overload.

Ethan pulled back, his eyes dark with a sudden, violent lust. "You're shaking, Zack. Is it fear? Or is it because no one has touched you like this in years?"

"I hate you," Zack gasped, his chest heaving.

"Good," Ethan said, his hand sliding inside Zack's waistband, gripping him with a firm, possessive heat. "Hate is a great fuel."

Ethan bent down, his mouth finding the sensitive skin of Zack’s neck, biting down hard enough to leave a mark. Zack let out a strangled cry, his body arching off the bed. The friction of their bodies, the scent of sweat and expensive soap, the sheer, raw power of the man holding him down—it was a tidal wave.

Ethan’s hands were everywhere, stripping away the last of Zack’s rags. When they were both bare, the contrast was stark: Ethan’s tanned, muscular frame against Zack’s pale, scarred skin.

"Look at me," Ethan commanded.

Zack opened his eyes, his breath coming in ragged hitches.

Ethan gripped Zack’s thighs, forcing them wide, his thumb stroking the sensitive skin of his inner leg. "I’m going to make you forget your name, Zack. All you'll remember is how it feels to belong to me."