Chapter 4

Jaxon

I 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 bullet. Accused of being part of some underground drug ring in downtown. They painted him as scum. But he wasn’t. We weren’t. My family’s fortune didn’t come from drugs. It came from concrete. Buildings. Real estate. My bloodline has been in the business for decades. We built cities, not cartels.

We didn’t touch anything illegal.

Not until now, I guess.

Then there's Ingrid Bishop.

We’re friends—if it still counts when she’s sucked my dick behind a church parking lot just for the thrill of it. We’ve known each other for years, through the mess, through the name-calling, the teasing, the mind games.

 At first, I didn’t think I was capable of feeling anything for her. She was just another pretty face in a line of chaos.

But now? After all the shit that’s gone down?

I feel something.

Guilt. Anger. Maybe even a twisted version of care.

She’s innocent—a girl cursed with the wrong surname.

Our dynamic has always been messy. Not quite love, definitely not peace—more like 70% hate, 30% confusion. She’s always been my plaything. My pain-in-the-ass obsession. Inxy. That’s what we call her. She’s mischievous, calculating, like a stray cat that scratches you one minute and curls up next to you the next. Dangerous. Beautiful. Goddess-like. Girlfriend material—if I ever believed in that shit.

Wait—the fuck am I thinking?

We’re supposed to hurt her. I’m supposed to hate her.

I shake the thought off and step back from my spiraling thoughts. I lean against the balcony railing. The wooden floors creak beneath me. This cabin—our hideout—sits isolated in the Nevada woods. Surrounded by tall trees and thick silence. Everything about it is dark, raw, and cold. Just like Jace. It’s his energy in architectural form.

I take a sip of my Smirnoff, letting the cold slide down my throat. I swirl the ice lazily in the glass, letting the clink of cubes break the quiet.

Birds chirp. Leaves rustle softly. The sky slowly dims. That in-between moment when the sun dies and night begins—twilight swallowing the world. It’s calm. So fucking calm.

Then a gunshot splits the silence.

“What the fuck—”

I’m already moving. My body knows before my mind catches up. I race down the stairs.

Where else would that sound come from?

“Late gun ranging, don’t you guys think—”

And then I freeze.

Ingrid.

She’s lying there—bloodied, pale, barely clinging to consciousness.

Did they just shoot her?

Two men rush into the basement, panicked, yelling over each other. Rick’s hands are coated in blood as he tries to stop the bleeding on her shoulder. A shoulder wound. Non-fatal. But that’s not the point.

“What the fuck, Jace?” I bark, stepping over the mess.

She may be our hostage—but this? This is too far.

Jace stands off to the side, trembling. His hands are shaking. He drops the gun as if it's hot iron.

“I—I was just trying to prove something,” he mutters.

His eyes dart from me to the pool of blood. He twitches, then looks away. Breathing uneven, jaw clenched. He’s not making sense. Not even to himself.

Rick looks like he’s two seconds away from punching Jace out. I don’t blame him. Everything is spinning out of control, and I’m caught between wanting to protect her and following through with the plan.

This is too far.

Despite all her sharp edges, Ingrid is still just a girl. A fragile one at that. Not meant for this level of chaos.

We rush her upstairs to the first-floor clinic. Matt’s already prepping the IV, blood wipes, gauze. The moment they try to lift her arm, she flinches and lets out a low, pained whimper.

“N-no,” she whispers, barely audible.

I move toward her. Kneel beside the bed and brush the hair out of her face.

“I’m sorry, Ingrid,” I say quietly.

“This won’t be long. Just until Christopher Bishop shows his face. Then you’re free.”

Or maybe not. Maybe none of us are. I don’t even know what I believe anymore.

And I hate Jace for this.

But I can’t go against him. This entire thing has been in motion for months. Years even. There’s no reversing it now. The Brotherhood doesn’t allow second thoughts. Only action.

Grey x Bishop is more than a headline—it’s war. A tragedy waiting to climax.

Once she’s bandaged and sedated, I slip out of the room. Someone’s placed a tray on the nightstand—fruit, juice, bottled water. It’s stupid, really. Comfort in the middle of hell.

Matt—the medic—stands outside, wiping his glasses. He used to be a nurse. But that was in another life. Before we all sold our souls to revenge.

“Let me know the moment she wakes up,” I say.

He nods. Silent. Steady.

And I walk away, not sure if I want her to wake up at all.