Page 9 of Undisputed Chaos
That guys had been my first real pack. Rough around the edges, full of sharp grins and rolling in money.
That's where I'd learned to laugh like I meant it, where the predator had found its sense of humor.
My phone buzzed, dragging me back to the present. Jax's reply glowed on the screen:
Jax
‘Uncle Adrian’ is still the guy who cried watching a kids’ movie last week.
I grinned. I knew the bastard loved me.
The familiar weight of violence settled on my shoulders as I pushed off from the wall.
Every instinct I'd honed in that childhood hell served me now—reading weakness, finding pressure points, knowing exactly when someone was about to break.
The ring was just the civilized version of what I'd always been built for.
People thought they understood predators. They pictured something wild and obvious, all teeth and claws. They never saw the ones who learned to smile while they circled, who'd been taught by necessity to wear charm like camouflage.
I wandered down the block, thinking about the next fight, the next rush, the next chance to let the monster out to play.
People saw the neon, the jokes, the puppy-dog energy, and thought I was harmless.
They never saw the part of me that craved the break, the snap, the beautiful chaos of violence.
Only Jax and Connor got it. Only the girls saw flashes of it, and they loved us anyway.
My phone sounded again—this time a video, Sierra’s voice giggling in the background as Estelle tried to teach Jax how to braid hair. Connor’s deadpan commentary was pure gold.
I grinned again, feeling something warm and sharp twist in my chest.
I was a predator, sure. But even we could be loved by the right people.
I tossed the empty water bottle into a trash can, stuffed a handful of gummies in my mouth, and headed for the jet, already hungry for the next fight.
The city stretched before me, bright, wild, and full of possibilities. I couldn’t wait to see what I’d break next.
CHAPTER ONE
Adrian
The bass thudded through the club like a heartbeat as I weaved my way through the mingling crowd.
I'd picked this place carefully after landing back home—a hunting ground disguised as a celebration.
The club was a shrine to excess, with chandeliers dripping from the ceiling, velvet ropes corralling the city’s most beautiful liars, and a dance floor that pulsed with enough sexual tension to power the city.
It was perfect for celebrating a win without the hassle of being recognized by too many fans who wanted selfies.
It was my kind of playground: expensive, exclusive, and just dangerous enough that the crowd kept their mouths shut and eyes averted when things got interesting.
But mostly, it was perfect for hunting.
I lounged at the bar for a while, sipping something top-shelf while watching the crowd through half-lidded eyes.
The men here were all tailored suits and too-white teeth, posturing for the women who wore their confidence like perfume.
Every so often, someone would glance my way, usually a woman, sometimes a man, drawn by the tattoos that crawled up my neck and arms, the way my black cropped top clung to muscle and made my ink pop under the lights.
