Page 33 of Bound By Her

“There are worse things.”

Bryson was under no delusions about his father. He was a powerful, violent man, and Kaydon was right to be wary of him. But to trust Adria over his father? Bryson didn’t understand where this was coming from.

“I cannot believe this. You need to do your job,” Bryson said, poking Kaydon in the shoulder. “Stop thinking of this as a vacation, where you get to play house.”

Kaydon sat a little straighter.

“We are vulnerable here. You need to see that,” Bryson said.

“No,” Kaydon pointed in his direction, “youfeel vulnerable here. Seth and I are in danger out there, where your father is doing God knows what. You said you were going to do your best to keep us together, now is that a promise or your usual hot air?”

It wasn’t often Kaydon called him on his shit. Bryson took another bite from his apple, trying to hide the hurt he felt.

“You have my word,” he said, looking Seth in the eye and then Kaydon, and then he kissed his ring, sealing the deal.

Kaydon relaxed. “Who knows? We might not even become sex slaves; it’s been three days of nothin’.”

Eric emerged in the doorway just as the three of them wrapped up breakfast. He always seemed to be nearby. Except for the military-grade knife attached to his hip, he reminded Bryson of a dad going to coach soccer.

Bryson had heard the same rumors everyone else had. Adria had picked him up in a back alley, next to a dumpster. No one expected it to work. But a year or so later, he was out and about, guarding her.

Ex-Navy Seal, if the rumors were true. If he had colors, he hid them. Now that Bryson thought about it, all of Adria’s staff hid their colors.

Eric moved into the kitchen.

“The cakes were a little dry today. I hear heating up the milk can help,” Bryson chided, and his brothers snickered at the table.

Eric leaned against the counter. “Has anyone ever told you three that you talk too much?”

“Big words from the Right Hand that does all the talking for the left,” Bryson responded.

He wasn’t in the mood. Whatever game Adria was orchestrating, he hoped she would play it through already. This waiting was getting on his nerves.

Eric laughed and spoke to him in perfect Romanian, not a hint of an accent. “Soon enough theleft hand will do plenty of the talking.”Looking him up and down, he added, “And then some.”

Before Bryson could react, he left the room.

CHAPTER 9

NORTH CAROLINA

Adria and Loretta sat at a wrought-iron table surrounded by an indoor garden of potted plants and ivy. Afternoon sunlight filtered through veiled arched windows, casting soft shadows against white curtains. The scent of fresh-cut flowers and brewing tea mingled in the air, wrapping the space in a warm, quiet elegance.

Loretta flipped through the thick dossier Eric had compiled on the three boys. Bryson’s file was the largest, but there was no shortage of information on Seth and Kaydon either.

Adria already knew a good deal about Kaydon. Selected at birth to be Luca’s Right Hand, he had endured more than most. When he was nine, his parents were targeted in a brutal attack, his mother shot, his father beaten to death with a bat. Kaydon survived and was taken in by the Winters. After Luca’s death in a car accident, Kaydon, at fifteen, was reassigned to Bryson. Now twenty-seven, two years older than Bryson, he was well-built and known as the most responsible of the three.

Seth Moore was raised in a violent Chicago neighborhood; his file revealed multiple hospital visits forsuspected abuse. Social services were called a few times, but nothing ever came of it. At fourteen, he began working for the Winters and was branded a year later. Twenty-two now, Seth was the youngest—small in stature, but by rumor, a wildcard with a bit of a violent streak.

Loretta set aside the files, and Adria pushed a stack of photos toward her. Gray hair slipped loose from Loretta’s messy updo as she studied each one.

“Quite something to look at, aren’t they?” Adria asked.

Loretta held up a photo from the boys’ medical evaluations. Bryson, shirtless, had his back turned to the camera. Bold script across his shoulders read ‘WINTERS’, flourishes curling up his neck. Scars crisscrossed his back—thin, straight, like belt marks.

Loretta raised an eyebrow. “The tattoos?”

“Family colors,” Adria replied. “Each one means something.”

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