I hated the wealth dripping from every statue, but at the same time, I never wanted to leave. I wanted to steal all the positive energy and strength that existed and bottle it— create an elixir to cure Clara.

Ben smiled, his skin looking like polished jet. “This is the best place on earth.” Spanning his arms, taking in the club as if it was his own, he said, “Welcome to Obsidian.”

Roan

I never asked for the hand life dealt me. I never wanted to be a ghost or a buried soul from society. But I learned from a very early age that choice was an illusion and freedom was a farce.

I no longer cared about that bullshit.

My past was my past, it sculpted me. My actions and wrong doings were my penance. My future and aspirations my vengeance.

I surveyed my empire, taking in the multiple fights, and the men and women seated in their plush spectator seats. If I allowed myself to feel, I would indulge in a little pride. I created this. From nothing.

For a dead man walking, I achieved more than I’d hoped, but I still wasn’t fucking happy. Never had been. Never would be. Not with the shit living in my skull.

My eyes flew to survey the boxing area. Nestled between the MMA cage and Muay Thai ring, it gleamed red and black with padding and ropes. Giant spotlights hung from the ceiling, sending washes of light on all platforms while leaving the decadent seating around the perimeter in the dark.

Emotions were foreign to me, but if I had to guess at what burned in my chest, I would say survival.

Survival to become more than what I was. To create a life where I could hide in plain sight.

My back creaked as I leaned my elbows on the glass banister. Considering I hadn’t yet hit thirty, my body believed I was a pensioner.

That’s what you get with a life full of violence.

Most major bones had been broken at least once; I’d shed more pints of blood than flowed through my veins; I’d been trained in a skillset that only a few elite ever learned.

I had a past that made all of this possible. A past that would never leave me alone.

My eyes settled on the boxing match below; a glint of silver flashed just before a punch landed on the jaw of a well-built man with long hair tied in a knot.

The man went down.

Fast.

His body bounced on the springy floor, and the referee blew his shrill whistle, signalling the end of the fight.

My body switched from relaxed to revving in a second flat. Goddammed cheaters in my fucking club.

“That cocksucker just signed his death warrant.” My muscles bunched in pleasure, arching with energy at the thought of violence. It’d been a full week since someone cheated, and it was high time I taught someone a lesson.

Egotistical bastard to think he could come in and cheat. No way. Not in my house. My thoughts raced, shading everything with bloodlust.

You’re going to pay tonight, and I’m going to love making you scream.

“Death warrant? Nah, you’re mistaken, mate. He had the crap beat out of him. He’s just a little pussy. Can’t take a real man’s punch.” Oscar, my second in command, kept his eyes on the fight and reached to pat my shoulder.

The second his hand landed on my blazer, he stiffened then wrenched his touch away. “Shit.”

Yes, shit. I gritted my teeth, riding through the muscles spasms, barely keeping control. Locking eyes with him, I said, “You’ve worked with me for a full year and yet you still haven’t learned. Maybe I should throw you in the ring tonight.” Anger rippled through my veins, hot and swift—taunting me with images of pain and power. For a moment, I hoped he would touch me again, then I’d have an excuse. I could break one of my many laws and enjoy a bit of recreation. I could give in.

He dropped his arm quickly, fingers opening and closing. “Sorry. It’s hard not to when it’s second bloody nature. Everybody touches, mate—either in violence or love.” He frowned. “If you’re going to re-join the human race anytime soon, you have to get used to people patting you on the back or shaking your hand.”

My hands curled, wanting so much to punch someone. I needed a victim—someone I could pour all this shit inside, so I no longer had to live with it. I might have escaped my past, but I hadn’t escaped the memories. Oscar thought it was second nature to touch—not for me. My second nature had been reprogrammed so efficiently it overruled every conscious thought.

I may be human on the outside, but inside…inside I had no control.

“You’re heading into the shut up or get fucked territory again, Oz. Don’t say I didn’t warn you. Do it again, and I’ll make sure you damn well remember to keep your hands to yourself.”

Oscar rolled his eyes, muttering, “You’re such a drama queen. God knows why I put up with your theatrics.”

A full year and I still hadn’t gotten used to his lack of fear around me. It wasn’t natural—not where I was from. It was why I kept him around to help maintain the illusion that I was like everybody else.

I forced the black thoughts away. “And you’re a cocky bastard who thinks he’s above harm.”

When I re-entered society, I did so on my own terms. I wasn’t there to make friends. I wasn’t there to take a wife or breed. My life path was one I’d trampled for far too long to deviate.

Not that I wanted any of those things. The only thing I craved was the thrill of the chase, the satisfaction of the hunt. And that’s why I could never be free.

Oscar shrugged. “I’ve told you time and time again. Go for a surf, mate. All that shit inside your pretty little head will disappear.”

Too fucking bad I didn’t know how to swim.

Spinning around, I refocused on the floor of Obsidian. Spread at my feet, housed in a cavernous room of the residence I’d built based on a childhood location, sat a ten million dollar investment.

I’d learned pretty early on that men were basic creatures.

Take away their suits and wives and jobs and responsibilities, and you’re left with a beast. A beast who wanted to spar and maim—to embrace their inner savage.

I offered rebellion and a chance to find themselves.

I gave them a place to fight.

The day I opened to exclusive members, I’d been prepared for a few interested parties. But I hadn’t been prepared for the overnight success or the worship of so many.

To be a part of my world, I requested three things:

Obedience.

Discipline.

Utmost secrecy.

Not to mention the obscene membership fees every month.

Oscar moved beside me, scanning the floors. “Don’t do anything idiotic. Everest won’t take accusations kindly. You know what happened last month with Praying Mantis.”

Last month Praying Mantis, also known as David Gorin, had cheated and ended up with a jaw vacant of teeth and a concussion. I’d only hit him once.

Oscar drummed his fingers on the glass balustrade. “If you go cursing and pointing blame, you’ll only bring—”

“Bring what? The wrath of the Wasps MC? Fuck ‘em. They can’t do anything worse than what others have already done.” I tensed. I hadn’t meant to say that. I’d meant to say I’d kick his ass and toss him from my club forever, but Oscar glanced at me sideways.

“If you told me what they’d done, then maybe I could agree. But seeing as you like to keep your aura of fucking mystery, I don’t have a clue what you’re talking about, and the veiled hints are really starting to grate on my bloody nerves.”

I cracked a rare smile. I liked that Oscar, with his blond hair and baby face, could stand up to me. Not many did.

In fact, I could list two men in my life who’d ever made me cower. The rest I didn’t give two shits about, and in turn, they feared a cold-blooded instrument who lived in the grey area with no right or wrong.