Four

CHAPTER FOUR

Drake's POV

The leather on the boardroom chair was cold and stiff, just like the atmosphere in the room. I hate these meetings. 

I hate the stale smell of expensive coffee and the way my three older brothers—Ethan, Logan, and Rhys—sit there, stiff in their tailored suits. They are trying desperately to sound like they inherited Dad’s business mind instead of just his bank account.

I slouched slightly, wishing I was back in the lab dealing with thermodynamic equations. That made sense. 

This mess, the family bike club empire, was purely emotional and egotistical, and right now, it was drowning.

“The sales data for the last quarter is abysmal, Dad. We keep focusing on vintage restoration, but the market is moving toward bespoke performance modifications,” Ethan stated, his voice condescending. He looked at the sheet of figures like they were abstract art.

My best friend, Gina, who was sitting next to me—because she’s literally stuck to me most of the time, thank God—snorted quietly into her water bottle. 

Gina is a chaotic, hilarious bisexual powerhouse, and the fact that she actively hates Drew is funny, if a little inconvenient sometimes. She just thinks he’s too loud and gets away with too much, which, okay, is kind of true. We don’t share a best friend, which makes our lives easier, mostly.

“Abysmal is an understatement, Ethan. And the vintage line is only hemorrhaging capital because Logan keeps overpaying for imports he never flips,” I cut in, my voice level. I was speaking for both me and Drew today, since he was busy with some mandatory athlete meeting he couldn't skip.

The three of them shot me matching glares. 

My brothers hate us. I know they do. It’s written all over their sharp features, especially when Dad throws a rare, proud look my way. 

Drew and I are the favorites, the legitimate successes, even if we are the youngest. Drew is the star athlete, and I’m the one who can actually read a spreadsheet and not just parrot a press release.

“Drake, focus on your academics. The business is fine,” Logan snapped, adjusting his tie.

“The business is not fine. If we don’t pivot away from high-risk aesthetics and invest in our proprietary engine tuning patents—which, by the way, Drew and I actually worked on—we’ll lose the biggest contracts next quarter,” I countered. I didn't raise my voice, but the sharpness of the facts cut through their bluff.

My father, who hadn't looked at anything but the numbers, finally leaned back. “Drake is right. Again. Logan, implement his suggestions by the end of the week. This meeting is adjourned.”

See? I’m the only one who gets it. It’s exhausting.

I stood up without waiting for the glares to subside and practically dragged Gina out. We hit the parking lot and climbed onto my matte black sports bike. The heavy thrum of the engine was a welcome sound after the suffocating silence of the boardroom.

“Your brothers are such tools,” Gina yelled over the roar as we sped out of the corporate park. “Tell me something I don’t know, G. Let’s get back. I need to lift before I have to think about corporate liability again.”

We got back to the relative sanity of the university compound. It was late afternoon, and the light was starting to turn that golden, dusty color. As we approached the main quad, Gina pointed.

“Look, it’s your annoying twin and some poor soul he’s harassing.”

I followed her gaze. And there he was. Drew, laughing too loudly, buzzing around Miles—Little Blue—who looked like he was trying desperately to merge with a hedge. Drew was doing that thing where he leaned in too close, invading personal space just to get a reaction. Miles was clutching a stack of books, his shoulders hunched, his head barely coming up to Drew's chin.

The moment I saw them, that cold, tight lump formed in my throat again. 

It was the same feeling I got yesterday in the restroom, that sudden, irrational clenching in my gut. I didn't like seeing Drew near him. 

I didn't like the way Miles looked so small and overwhelmed. I didn't like the way Drew was completely captivated by the nervous energy coming off the other boy.

I hated it. I didn't know why, but the sight of Miles Donovan just caused this automatic surge of hostility and possessiveness that was completely foreign to me. It felt like I was watching something fragile being handled carelessly, even though Drew wasn’t touching him.

I slowed the bike to a crawl, pulling my phone from my pocket.

 > Me: You need to break away. We’re going to be late for the party.

I didn't wait for his response. I needed to get out of there before I did something completely insane, like speed over and physically separate them. 

Gina, thankfully, just took my sudden urgency as a sign of typical twin madness. “Finally! My night needs alcohol and maybe one or two girls,” she cheered, gripping my waist as I accelerated away.

Nighttime came, and boy, the noise was deafening. The air in the warehouse was thick with cheap beer, sweat, and adrenaline. 

This was where we came to lose control. The fight club, hidden three miles off-campus in an abandoned lot, was our necessary escape valve. 

We didn't fight for money though—even though some crazy jackasses bet on the fighters sometimes— the real aim of the fight club was to let our violent sides out a bit. And safely. It was the only way we got to feel something other than the pressure that came with us younglings. 

Gina was already lost in the crowd, dancing with a girl she’d met five minutes ago. I pushed through the throngs of people toward the makeshift ring—two ropes strung between cinder blocks—already stripping off my shirt. 

 I was focused entirely on getting that release, that primal exhaustion.

But as I scanned the dark, pulsating crowd, looking for the usual faces, I saw him. 

 Miles. He was tucked away in the darkest, grimiest corner of the warehouse, practically invisible unless you were looking for him. 

He was standing with a few people I recognized as being from the freshman dorms, probably the ones who thought he needed a “confidence boost” or some misguided socialization. 

He was holding a plastic cup but definitely wasn't drinking from it.

His eyes were wide, darting nervously around the volatile scene, clearly stunned by the cash betting and the sheer chaos of it all. He looked like a deer trapped in a very loud, very angry headlight beam. 

My focus shattered. What the hell is he doing here?

I heard my name called. My turn. 

I climbed into the ring, shaking off the distraction. The opponent was a brute from the wrestling team. I needed this. I channeled the frustration from the meeting, the tension from the library, and the irrational anger I felt about Bluey and Drew. I needed to just hit something.

The bell rang, and I moved. I didn't hold back. I let the rage take over, punching with a cold, focused fury until the opponent went down hard, the crowd roaring. 

I stood over him, breathing heavily, the sweat stinging my eyes, finally feeling that delicious, complete numbness of physical exhaustion.

As the crowd surged forward, betting on the next match, I was climbing out of the ring when I saw it. 

Drew was standing near the edge of the ring. His eyes weren't on me; they were locked onto that far, dark corner. He spotted him first. 

I saw the amused, playful look drain from Drew’s face, replaced by that rare expression of concern that only ever came out when one of us was in trouble.

Then I followed his line of sight, and I saw Miles again. He hadn't moved. He was still hiding, staring right at me, probably having just watched me brutally beat a guy unconscious. Both of our expressions shifted completely, from pumped adrenaline to protective awareness.

But before I could even take a step or signal Drew to stop watching him like that, the music cut out entirely. The sudden silence was shocking, heavier than the bass had been. Then, a voice boomed from the warehouse entrance: “Police! This area is shut down!”

Panic flared instantly. The crowd dissolved into a desperate scramble. 

Everyone knew the drill: disappear. Miles, standing right there in his dark corner, was suddenly exposed.

His anxiety hit terminal velocity. The light in the warehouse was dim, but I saw it. The bluish thing was spreading across his exposed neck and up his cheekbones, not faint this time, but glowing so much, it was very visible. 

Drew didn’t hesitate. He was faster, diving straight into the fleeing crowd, rushing toward Miles.

 I, meanwhile, positioned myself by the ring, using my height and bulk to block the main choke point, shoving people back, creating space. 

I was running interference, making sure no panicked idiot accidentally slammed into the terrified kid in the corner.

Drew reached him first, spinning him around and pressing him against the wall, trying to shield him. “Don’t move,” Drew whispered urgently.

Miles trembled hard, still wide-eyed, his body shifting slightly as if he was trying to put a few more inches of space between himself and the man who was trying to protect him. 

The sounds of sirens could be heard from inside the warehouse. Fuck, no. 

The door burst open, and a uniformed cop stepped into the messed up space, his voice echoing over the last few shouts of the fleeing crowd. 

“Drake King. Drew King. Hands where I can see them.”

Uh oh.