Page 24 of Bound By Her

Bryson had witnessed his father kill many times. Images of Seth’s brain being splattered against the office floor flooded his senses.

“You have allowed yourself to have attachments and, as such, are more vulnerable. It’s time you take your responsibility seriously and learn what it is to be head of the Winters.”

“If you kill him, you might as well kill me,” Bryson said.

His father stopped moving.

“Kill him, and I swear I’ll find a way to kill myself.”

There was a coldness to Bryson’s voice. A coldness inherited from his father. He never wanted to be the heir. It was never supposed to be him, but he went along with things. Went to the meetings, acted the part. But if killing his brothers is what it took for him to learn how to be the head of the family, then he wouldn’t do it.

Couldn’t do it.

Bryson said, “You barely sealed the deal with thatFederov bitch. If I’m dead, you’ll never get that land. Not to mention how it would look.”

His father needed that land as much as Bryson wanted him to have it. The family was hemorrhaging power, and they were dangerously close to losing their position at the table. They needed a new cash flow and a way to secure their fourth spot in the Nine’s hierarchy. With this land, there was a potential they could even increase their seat.

His father considered his words.

He wanted him to go to Adria’s.

Needed him to.

In showing his cards, Bryson then had his own hand to play.

Kill Seth and risk losing the deal, or spare his life and gain the power he desperately sought.

His father searched his face to see if he was bluffing. Bryson stared back, knowing not an ounce of insincerity would be found.

Bryson had attachments, but he was willing to do something his father never would.

Die.

He would die for Seth and Kaydon. Any day. Any time.

Callen uncocked the gun and stepped back.

“Like I said,” he sneered. “Soft.”

Then he punched Bryson in the face.

It wasn’t a backhand. It was a full-force blow, his rings biting into Bryson’s cheekbone.

Three sharp thuds. Pain exploded across Bryson’s face.

Then a punch to the gut, and his stomach heaved. Vomit hit the marble floor. The butt of the gun struck his head, and Bryson fell to his knees.

From somewhere in the fog, he heard Seth yelling, Kaydon thrashing.

Bryson’s senses were overwhelmed by the grip of arms restraining his hands, pulling him upright. The nauseating smell of brandy and expensive cheese following him.

“Pathetic,” his father said as he delivered relentless blows to Bryson’s face and torso. He dangled limply in the strong grasps, feeling the sting of each strike.

The metallic scent of blood lingered in the air, and Bryson’s vision waned

As the blows continued, the pain melded and floated around him. Bryson’s limbs were no longer fighting, and instead they refused to move at all.

His skin tingling with numbness, his surroundings blurring into a haze. The acrid scent of brandy lingered in the air as Bryson struggled to stay conscious, his father’s movements a distant, muffled sound in the background.

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