Page 1 of Broken Truths

PROLOGUE

Sir Franklin Jarvis

Blood of my blood.

Kin of my kin.

Bane of my very existence.

My grandson tilts his chin in the air as I approach, his dark eyes flashing in challenge.

Stubborn defiance.

I purposefully slow my stride. Delaying the inevitable. Making him sweat. I want him to fear me. In the length of time it takes me to get to him, I want him to be shitting himself wondering how I’m going to getmyPound of Flesh.

The cavernous room darkens while I leisurely take my place at the front of the line. The torches and my fellow brother Knights fade as I search the face in front of me for a hint of something—anything—to be proud of.

Leonardo has the eyes of a Jarvis. Like my grandfather’s, they’re cold and cruel. But he has his mother’s soft features. One could call it beauty, but I label it a hindrance. As if his physical traits weren’t bad enough, he has the feeble mind of both his parents.

Their union was doomed from the start. Leonardo’s father could never take charge, and certainly not with her. The only reason I sanctioned the match was because her family had enough money…

And.

The.

Tits.

Those glorious fucking tits.

From the very first moment my boy brought her into our house, I homed in on those delectable mounds, picturing them spilling over my palms as I fucked her. I was surprised to find they were real when I first took her. Just sweet, sweet, yielding flesh.

I find myself smirking at the memory. Like the timid, weak-minded man my son was, he never told her what was expected. Admittedly, her shock made our first encounter that much better—for me.

Her cries for my son turned to whimpers while his fists banged on the door. I came like a king that day, claiming her with my seed while my fingers gripped those luscious mounds.

The cunt ruined them eventually. Right before she blew her brains out, she sliced her best features to shit, marring them as if that last act of defiance would bother me.

It didn’t. I hired a makeup artist to perfect them so my last fondle was practically as good as the first, albeit a little colder.

No one tops me.

Standing in front of me now is another example of treachery. I’m almost impressed by the stubborn tilt of my grandson’s chin as he awaits his punishment. Staging his father’s death hadn’t broken him.

It’s a good sign, but his reluctance to bow to authority isn’t.

Hewillsubmit to me.

In my years of experience, I’ve found that weak minds like Leonardo’s need a…rearranging of sorts. Constant action that shows him who’s in charge will achieve the desired outcome—obedience.

He’s good muscle, but he can be so much more than an errand boy if he’d just give in. There are only two things he needs to come to terms with: One, I am his master.

Two, Jarvis above everything—and everyone—else.

The fact that Fledgling Astor pulled some strings to get Leonardo here means he could be doing something right. Or something very, very wrong.

Either way, a reminder of his loyalty couldn’t hurt.

I eye the tray of tools that have been placed to my right. Scanning the blades, I spot the perfect one. Not too big. I’m not doing this to inflict physical pain. I need something sharp, agile.

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