Page 8 of Unwritten Rules

“And the winner, by TKO, is… Jameson.”

Money is changing hands left and right, the more savvy members smugly collecting their winnings, knowing Taylor is a reasonably sure bet. My lips twitch.

Not on my watch.

“You up next for a hammering, Hawthorne?”

I allow my lips to lift ever-so-slightly higher, shrugging nonchalantly. “You’re most welcome to try, Jameson. There’s a first time for everything.”

He barks a laugh. “I’d love to oblige; however, my dick has a different type of hammering he simply can’t miss. She’s positively virginal.”

He rolls his eyes dramatically and bites his knuckles with a wry grin.

I chuckle darkly. “Some things never change.”

He hops down with ease, slapping me on the shoulder roughly. Then he reaches for a nearby towel to wipe his perspiration-covered brow. “And some things never should. So I’d wish you luck, but we both know you don’t need it.”

Quirking a brow, he continues. “You’d never think looking at you that much anger rages just beneath the surface. Hmm?”

With those parting words, he turns and makes his way back through the crowd as Harold steps to the centre of the ring.

“Who’s taking on Hawthorne tonight, then?”

* * *

Three knockouts, five rounds, and two split knuckles later, I bid Harold farewell and make my way back upstairs, donning my mask as I go. This time, I slip up the grand staircase, noting the crowd has grown since my arrival.

Two security guards at the end of the hallway nod as I pass them to slip up to the private chambers above via a smaller staircase. Making my way to the sideboard, I remove my mask, pour myself a glass of water, and down it in one gulp as I try to take the edge off my hunger.

I’m just rinsing the glass off when I hear unmistakable clicks on the stairs, turning in time to see V toss her purse onto a lounger before bending to slip her heels from her feet.

“Sorry I’m late, my dear. Eleanor wouldn’t settle for Antonia, and traffic was a nightmare.” She moves forward, tilting her cheek, which I drop a kiss upon dutifully.

Vivienne Burton, the only child of the late Valentine Burton, co-founder of this fine establishment, grins up at me as my hands drop to her very pregnant stomach. “How’s my little one? Not giving her mum too much flack, I hope.”

She chuckles, swatting my hands away to run her own across her protruding stomach protectively. The visual sends a shot of longing through me, straight to my marrow, though I forcibly push it away, knowing I’ll never be a father.

I’d never willingly inflict the Hawthorne method of parenting upon another living soul, despite what I wished when I was younger.

V is in tune with whatever flickers across my features, having known me almost as long as Henry and Caden. Our brotherhood is the found family I’ve made for myself, with my familial situation being lacklustre at best.

Caden North, king of rock and roll, lead singer of Misdirection and father of an almost-three-year-old tearaway. Bella North is undoubtedly set for greatness, whether through dictatorship or humanitarianism; the jury’s still out.

Henry DeMarco, CEO of entertainment giant DeMarco Holdings. He’s my oldest friend. My confidante. And the brother of my greatest weakness.

Her brow puckers in concern, deepening when she spies my knuckles. “Do you really want to keep doing this, Nate?”

“Please, V. I need this. I need you to do this for me.” I turn my back and begin shucking off my shoes and jacket.

V soon follows suit, settling on the chaise lounge, legs stretched out and crossed at the ankles as she tries to get as comfortable as her belly will allow.

Dropping down onto the rug, I lean my back against the chaise and roll up my shirt sleeves.

“How did you do this month, Nate?”

I swallow roughly. “I almost lasted the whole month. It wasn’t until today I let myself… go there. I-I still haven’t physically checked in on her.”

Huffing out a breath, I drop my head forward into my hands and scrub my palms up and down my face. “But I want to. Fucking badly, V. Desperately.”