Page 1 of His Last Will

PROLOGUE

ARI

18 YEARS OLD - VALENTINE’S DAY

Valentine’s Day fucking sucked when you were in love with your best friend.

The candy hearts, the love notes, the trinkets. All those sickeningly sweet, in-love couples posting their pictures and writing sonnets to each other in their captions. Gooey and smushy and so pathetically cheesy.

It’s all so gross.

I want it so bad.

And I hate myself for wanting it with him.

My best friend.

Dangerously good-looking with his tall frame, toned hockey muscles, golden locks, and blue-green eyes I could stare into for hours. Combined with his insane ego and silver tongue, most girls dropped their panties before they even said hello.

Believe me, I saw it happen. One time, this girl walked up to him, dropped her underwear, and threw it in his face like the smell of it would be so irresistible he would tear her ass up right there on the street.

I think he made it to the next alleyway before fucking her against the nearest dumpster.

Goddamn, I wanted to be her. Dumpster girl.

My wet dreams were unmatched.

Between being friend-zoned since I knew what a crush was and being the illegitimate daughter of a traitor to The Order—an elite secret society his family was in charge of—I never really stood a chance. In fact, I was pretty sure I was even further back on the list of potential candidates than the dumpster they fucked next to.

God, to be that dumpster, watching his cock shuttle in and out of her, listening to his grunts and groans. I’d expel my trash right there on the sidewalk.

Bringing a new visual to cum dump since 2022, that’s me.

The only real reason I was living under this roof was because of Brodie’s mother. She always wanted a daughter but was unable to have more children after Brodie was born. Probably didn’t want to screw Anthony anymore. I wouldn’t blame her. But despite my questionable parentage, Elena took me in and raised me as her own. And when she died, Anthony kept me, even after he remarried.

It’s not like I haven’t tried to date other people. I have, but it’s like there is a glaring neon sign that says ‘Do Not Touch’ plastered across my ass. The poor suckers who seem to miss it, well, they never stood a chance.

I distinctly remember dressing up last Valentine’s Day for a date with Dylan Warner. He took me to a nice little restaurant on the dock, got us a table by the water, with candles and everything. Sure, he had the same personality as the dead fish that happened to be floating by during our appetizer course, but I liked him enough.

Until Brodie came charging down the dock, picked Dylan up by the suspenders, and threw him into the water. I watched him land right on top of that fish. So, sputtering out dead fish water and angry as a wet cat, he yelled loud enough for the entire restaurant to hear, “What the absolute fuck, Brodie!?”

To which Brodie responded, “You know the rules. Stay away from her.” I had never heard his voice sound so sour. He then glared at everyone in the restaurant like he was warning them off as well. Brodie proceeded to take my hand and drive me to my favorite diner, which was decked out in pink garland and paper hearts for the holiday.

I kind of like to think that was our first date, but nothing ever came of it. He just told me that Dylan was scum and I could do better. I didn’t mention that no one was going to ask me out once word got out about Dylan.

So I was back to envying dumpster girl.

Which is why it makes complete sense that on Valentine’s Day this year, I am standing in the garden behind our house, staring into his bedroom window, hoping to catch a glimpse of him.

Somebody save my sanity.

After a few hours and an embarrassing conversation with myself, I finally see him through his bedroom window. Hands in his pockets and a slight furrow of his brow as he scans the backyard. I don’t think he can see me from my spot, but I move behind the trellis in the hope he doesn’t notice me, and I can look my fill.

Brodie’s button-up shirt hangs open. His broad tattooed chest and the rough ridges of his abs are made prominent by the light in his room. His belt is loose, and the top button of his pants is already undone. The light dusting of hair just beneath his belly button, trailing down past the top of his boxers, makes my mouth water. The bulge beneath is apparent even from here.

If I’m lucky, maybe he will remove his boxers while standing in front of the paned glass, and I can watch.

What the hell was wrong with me?