THE POSSESSIVE BLOODLINE

JaceMy mind is a fucking haze. Rick has been so long in the mission, I frantically walk down past the alley with suburbs of flecking grasses outside the club. My phone beeped. Jaxon:Your girl skipped school, Jacey boy. I swear to God, I could nail Jaxon’s dick over his university pole for updating so late; it doesn't even matter anymore. Jace:The most dumbass undercover ever, no wonder she loathes your fucking dick.Jaxon:Yours is just so big, Daddy.I shut my phone off, cringing at the thought of my asshole childhood friend Jax getting sucked by my sister. Well, I guess not anymore because she's now one of the bishops. The Bishops. I can deal with the Devil just so I could massacre their entire lineage for ruining my own family. Ingrid Bishop is annoyingly innocent of what those motherfuckers did to her own bloodline. She is led to a princess life, blinded by the truth that our Father is tortured for a crime he didn't commit and Mother is nowhere to be found. They mess wit

JaxonI meet up with the rest of the boys under Jace Grey’s founded Brotherhood. We talk politics, NBA, girls—typical distractions for men like us, pretending we still have normal lives when the truth is, we’re far from it. The Brotherhood isn’t just some frat for bored rich kids with unresolved trauma. It’s a movement, or at least that’s how we like to see it. A rebellion disguised in cigars, laughter, and whiskey. But we know better—we’re angry men with unfinished business.The one thing that binds my trio to the rest of the gang is our shared resentment for society. People who know us whisper behind our backs and call us many names. The new breed of radicals. Misguided sons of rebellion. Some even compare us to the New People’s Army—because, fuck the Bishops. We don’t pretend to be clean, but they’re worse. They’re rot wrapped in designer silk.I’m a victim. My grandfather was one of the innocents gunned down by their order—no trial, no proof. Just a name, an address, and a bulle

IngridPain is the only thing I recognize.Not a thought. Not a face. Just pain.My shoulder is shredded raw from the gunshot he planted in me. Jace Grey—he pulled the trigger without flinching. I didn’t think he’d do it. Not really. But he did. And here I am, stitched together by someone else’s hand, left to bleed in his empire of silence.My body trembles. My thoughts come in static. But one thing is sharp, razor-clear:I’m going to survive this. Just long enough to bury him.Jace Grey will die.And I will be the one to end him.But survival isn’t passive. It requires calculation, endurance, patience. I’m not strong enough yet. There’s no revenge for the weak. And right now? I’m still crawling.I push myself up. My vision sways, a sick wave of dizziness crashing into my skull.There’s food beside me—lukewarm, untouched. I eat like I’ve been starved for years. No shame. No manners. Just instinct. I’ll need the energy.I scan the room. The walls are made of expensive timber—polished, d

IngridWe arrived at the Grey Cabin—and every man there looked at me like I was a threat. Or worse, prey.Their eyes didn’t blink, their jaws locked, postures rigid like they’d been waiting for a kill order that never came. It reminded me of some ancient Spartan ritual—men cloaked in firelight, circling a bonfire to burn a deer alive. And this time, I was the deer.I reached for Rick’s shirt, gripping the hem like a child clinging to the last thread of safety. He walked ahead of me, paving a path through the pack of predators. Matt stayed by my side like a quiet shield, not saying a word.I turned my head slightly, glancing at the rest of the men—Jace’s remaining army.My stomach dropped.There were about fifty of them. Fifty men sent out into the forest because I ran. Because I dared to break his grip.I swallowed the knot rising in my throat.Dear God, I feel like I was a sacrificial lamb in my past life. I remember a quote from Albert Camus: Live to the point of tears. But Goddamn

IngridHe slows again.Teasing. Testing. Torturing me with every calculated inch of space he doesn’t cross.His breath is fire against my ear, but his body never fully touches mine. Just the edge of his palm at my waist—possessive, idle, cruel.“You like that?” he murmurs, voice like smoke curling into my spine.My body says yes. My lips stay sealed.He knows. Bastard knows.Every nerve in me is screaming for more, and he gives nothing but the weight of want.I’m burning from the inside out. And the worst part? He isn’t even inside me—in heart, but who knows what this is. He’s just present—dominant, devouring, deliberate.“You want me to stop?” he whispers. His mouth is brushing the skin of my neck now, like a kiss he hasn't earned.“No.” My voice is breathy, traitorous.“Say it louder.”I clench my fists at my sides. I should slap him. I should spit in his face.Instead, I shiver.“No,” I say again. Louder. Shamefully desperate.He pulls back just enough to make me feel the distance.