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Chapter 1:
Odin made his way down the narrow hallway, hands stuffed into the front pockets of his loosely fitted charcoal silk pants. He hated being woken for anything and hadn’t bothered changing out of his pajamas when he’d gotten the emergency call from Loni, one of his heads of security and a member of his private guard. He’d thrown on a silk robe on his way out of his suite but had left it untied and opened, resulting in his entire chest on full display as his bare feet padded down the wooden floorboards.
Like he did wherever he went, his presence drew attention. People stopped midsentence to gawk; some bolder than the rest crooked a finger his way and stared suggestively, trying their luck. He offered them a flirtatious smirk but nothing more as he passed, too keen on seeing what all the commotion was about to partake in any fun at the moment.
Maybe later, though, once this was all said and done, he’d return and find some time to play. It’d been a long while since he’d had his cock sucked properly, at least three days or so since he’d lain with anyone. Work had kept him busy, and for someone like Odin, who was used to getting his dick wet daily, that was a damn near travesty.
He hadn’t escaped the rigid life of his past just to fall back on old habits. No, he’d built this city’s Red Light district from the ground up and fully intended to enjoy the fruits of his labor.
Whispers followed him in the murky darkness of Club Cherry, the dim red lighting doing nothing to hide his sculpted form from prying eyes. The cut and grooves of his abs stood out even more thanks to the shadows, and he saw a couple people smack their lips tellingly, not even bothering to hide their arousal from him. Their reactions came despite the ink on his skin—maybe because of it.
Shouts were rare on the planet, and those who did remain typically held little to no access to their power. The Dominus of each of the three Brumal mafia families located in Kiland Soto were exceptions, and Odin was one of them.
He didn’t hide who or what he was, the silk swishing around him as he walked, exposing some of the Shout tattoos that trailed up his left side. The sleeves of his robe kept the ink on his upper arms hidden, but the unmissable twist of black that trailed up the right side of his neck was visible to all. The ink shimmered as he moved, catching the light here and there.
There was no mistaking who he was as he meandered down the corridor, heading straight for the classified area of the VIP section of the club that he called home. The tattoos helped, but it was primarily due to the fact his hair was still dyed that obnoxious neon green he’d chosen at random two weeks earlier.
Though it’d grown on him, he’d been debating going back to a dirty blond, his preferred color since fleeing from his past life and the darker hair color he would have been forced to maintain if he’d stayed there. A tiny rebellion, but a satisfying one all the same.
As he finally approached the towering double doors that led to his private office, two sentries dressed in all-black three-piece suits bowed their heads in greeting. Once they’d been acknowledged, they turned to give a lighter nod to the shadows who’d been trailing silently behind Odin all this time.
Corbin and Lonan, identical twins, trained in the art of remaining unseen. As Odin’s body guards, it was rare for him to wander far without them hot at his heels, even when he remained within the club's walls.
He’d learned long ago the kind of attacks that could deliver killing blows tended to come from close to home and not outside of it like everyone was taught to believe.
The twins were lithe and, more often than not, quiet. Born female to a father who’d been desperate for sons, they’d experienced something similar to what Odin had, and had been tossed on the streets. However, they’d been younger than he’d been, too small to fend for themselves. When he’d gotten word from a brothel that two orphans were begging for work, he’d gone to check things out for himself.
He still didn’t fully understand what it’d been about them that had called to his kinder nature—one up until that point he’d been certain no longer even existed. Whatever it’d been, though, he’d listened to it and had taken the girls in. At the time, he’d barely been an adult himself, having just turned nineteen, but a decade later, he considered taking a gamble on them the best choice he’d ever made.
They were more loyal than anyone he’d ever known, and what’s more, they felt indebted to him. If nothing else, he could always depend on their guilt to help keep them in line, not that he’d ever had to stoke that flame.
The doors were opened, and he stepped into the large room he called his office. It was massive in size, with a fireplace already roaring to life on the far right wall and two large black leather sofas flanking a coffee table with a mirrored surface. The windows, one directly across from the entrance and one taking up most of the left wall had the curtains pulled shut to block out the brightness of the midmorning sun.
His desk sat before the one furthest, and at its side was a spiral staircase that led up to an open second level lined with bookshelves. The atmosphere in here was still dark, with low orange lighting from the few lamps and the raging fire the only things keeping the shadows at bay, but it was hardly the sexy appearance one would expect from the Dominus of the Snow family, so it wasn’t often Odin invited guests here.
Of course, an invitation had never stopped someone like Wren Shen. The raven-haired gambler cocked his head as Odin entered, a teasing glint in his cobalt eyes. He was dressed as though he’d come straight from one of his famous gambling dens, probably Trickster, his favorite, the studded leather collar tight around his neck winking in the lamplight.
There was a cut across the bridge of his straight nose, and the charcoal liner that lined his eyes was smudged at the corners. Aside from these minor details, he looked impeccable as ever, forbidden fruit of the most enticing variety.
“Please tell me you’ve come to offer up your services,” Odin only partially joked as he dropped down onto the center of the couch opposite Wren. He sprawled out, stretching his arms across the back, planting his bare feet on the edge of the coffee table and crossing them at the ankle.
Wren already gave off the impression of a false sense of relaxation, one arm up and bent to rest his head against his tattooed knuckles, the other tapping out a rhyme only he could hear against his black jean-clad thigh. His leather jacket was checkered in reds and blacks, with chains safety pinned here and there so that they rattled and jingled with every slight movement.
Odin let out a low whistle, making a point of sweeping his gaze up and down the Dominus of the Hail family. He’d been friends with Shen for a while, and the playful banter came easily despite his earlier annoyance at having been woken. “With a look like that, you could attract a very hefty sum. The customers would come crawling even.”
“Is that your nice way of stating I look like—what was it again?” he turned to address the tall man who stood off to the side with his head dipped low.
“‘A deviant college student,’ I believe, is what was said the last time, sir,” the man replied in a cool voice devoid of emotion.
Odin clucked his tongue. “Jita. Who do you work for again?”
“Forgive me, sir,” spoken in that same monotone.
Jita had been his Counselor for many years, and he didn’t typically make unannounced appearances, even though Club Cherry was a legal establishment.
Odin quirked a brow at his presence. “Was I expecting you, Jita?” He may have forgotten. It wouldn’t be the first time.
“No, sir,” Jita said. “I came to discuss something important, however,” he sent a sideways glance toward Wren, “I can return at a more appropriate time.”
