Page 22 of Primal

“It already is too late,” I counter dryly. “Since I’m tied to a bastard likeyou.”

I stomp off before he can answer, but the smell of his musky cologne clings to me, reminding me that there’s no way to escape him.

Chapter 13

Braken

“What. The. Fuck!” Soren says loud enough that I have to pull my phone away from my ear. “Married? Are you fucking kidding me?”

“You’re getting married?” Merrick parrots. It’s obvious now that I’m on speaker phone.

“Fiora Godwin?” Locke adds. “You’re marrying a Godwin? Have you lost your mind?”

I sigh. “You guys know how things work in families like mine.”

“You’re fucking forty years old, Braken!” Soren snaps. “You don’t have to do what Daddy says anymore, you know.”

“I’m not doing this because of my father,” I argue. “I’m doing it for me and for us. We can’t afford having Hector Godwin as an enemy. He could destroy what we’ve built, and if he really wants to, he could really fuck with my family, too.”

“We’ll figure out a way so you don’t have to marry someone,” Locke says. “Fuck the Godwins. We’ll rebuild if we have to. Just because they own the island, doesn’t mean they own us.”

“I get that. And trust me, I’m not scared of Hector, I’m just choosing the best path—the easier one. It’s complicated, and frankly, I think this isn’t exactly a bad thing,” I say. “I know youguys think I’m crazy, and I’m sure I am to some degree, but for right now, this is what I want. I need you all to back me on this.”

“And this Fiora girl is just going to marry you?” Merrick asks. “She isn’t putting up a fight?”

“Sadly, she was brought up the same way I was. It’s almost like this type of arrangement is built into our DNA. Doesn’t mean it’s right, but it’s just what we do.” I check my watch and see I’m going to be late if I don’t end this conversation. “Listen, I’ve got something to do here in Seattle, and then I’m heading back to The Vault. I need to have you guys do something for me. I want hidden cameras set up in Fiora’s old cottage.”

“You think she’s coming back here?” Soren asks. “We just assumed that now that her identity is blown, she would have no reason to.”

“I’m going to push for her to stay near me,” I say. “Her father is a fucking asshole, and I don’t think she’s happy living under his roof, even for the short time until we are wed. I want her out from under his thumb and verbal abuse. So, I’m going to suggest she stay in her cottage until then. But I also want us to keep a close eye on her. I don’t think she’s safe. Without us knowing who killed Mason and why, I still want to keep around-the-clock tabs on her. Can you guys make that happen?”

“We got it covered,” Merrick assures.

“We’ll still watch her,” Sorens adds.

“Thanks,” I say. “I got to go, but I’ll see you in a couple of hours.”

The ground is still scorchedfrom where Mason’s car blew up.

Retracing Mason’s steps the morning of the murder doesn’t yield much. He woke, he ate, he called his dad, he went toa Thursday afternoon Mariners game. As he was leaving the parking lot after the game, his car exploded into a fiery inferno, taking several empty parked vehicles with it. It was all over the news for two days straight, and the cops gave some useless speech about figuring out more details as quickly as they could.

That fizzled out as quickly as it came. No updates and no press conferences vowing “ultimate justice” have been forthcoming. My call with the precinct in charge this morning was a joke. It doesn’t surprise me. Cops are notoriously useless for shit like this. If they’re already in someone else’s pockets, we can kiss that investigation goodbye. But that begs the question: if it’s not us, who the fuck is paying off cops in our territory?

Mason was a motherfucking Godwin.

I glance around the lot and check for any security cameras. There’s one to the north and one to the southwest. Both are a bit far, but one of them will have picked up something. If I can get my hands on that footage, I can see if anyone suspicious was at the scene of the crime. Anyone smart wouldn’t be, but most people are one step away from handcuffs. Or in our case, a quiet concrete grave where they won’t be missed.

I nod to Jasper, and he hands me my phone. I scroll through my list of contacts until I reach the operations manager. The Frosts aren’t the only owners of the T-Mobile Stadium obviously, but we are large investors, so I have some power here. As soon as I say I’d like to meet, I’m welcomed to the stadium “at my earliest convenience.”

I leave Jasper behind with the car to head to the stadium. Janet greets me not even ten minutes later, ushering me into a private, personal tour around the arena. The middle-aged woman spouts information about what they’re doing with recent renovations, to which I only smile and nod. The money we give works two-fold. I can pull strings like this to get what I want, and it’s easy to obtain zoning permits around the stadium to buildmy hotels. During the season, I make a pretty penny from rich baseball fans who come to see their team play. The area around the stadium is prime real estate, and the money we invest is a drop in the bucket to have a majority control over it.

Once the tour is over, I make my ultimate request and ask to see the security team. Janet leads me there without question. The office is stuffy and smells like a mix of body odor and stale chips. A multitude of cameras on the wall watches over the entire stadium. I trail my gaze over a few showing the parking lot, but I’m not able to find the one I need before I’m accosted by a younger man decked out in Seattle Mariners merchandise.

“Janet! What can I do for you?” he asks, eying me up and down. “Special guest?”

“I’m Braken Frost.” I hold out my hand in greeting. “Nice to meet you.”

“Matt Follins, head of the security team.” He returns my handshake. “Do you need something?”

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