I STRETCHED, LOOKING up at my ceiling. The plasterwork around the huge chandelier never failed to let me know who I was.

A Hawk.

The intricate rosettes and architraving was a testament to my namesake. Birds of prey swooped, hunted, and devoured small animals from above.

My hard cock lay heavily against my stomach. My hands clenched beneath my head. I was so fucking close to breaking the rules and taking Nila last night. She’d pushed me too far. I’d wanted to see how smart her mouth could be with my dick jammed down her throat.

I should’ve taken her.

Removing my hand from beneath my pillow, I grasped my morning wood and stroked. My eyes snapped closed as I imagined a different outcome to last night.

Nila’s pink plump lips opening. Me sliding inside her mouth. My balls tightening as her timid tongue welcomed my cock. She’d lick me just like she’d done my thumb. Eager, inexperienced—a novice with so much to give.

I’d rock forward, holding her head, giving her no choice but to take more of my length.

I’d thrust harder, driving her from accepting to choking.

Fuck.

My hand worked tight and fast. The large bed creaked as I arched my back, giving into the fantasy of blowing down Nila Weaver’s throat.

Fuck, yes. Take it. Yes.

My quads tightened, and I groaned as the first spasm of release shot from my balls, creating a sticky mess on my stomach.

Choke on it. Love it.

Fantasy Nila kept sucking me, drawing another wave of pleasure. I liked her a lot more with my cock in her mouth. She was silent. Incapacitated.

I shivered as the last spurt of my orgasm joined the mess. I opened my eyes.

“Goddammit.” I hadn’t meant to do that. I should’ve summoned a club whore to come and suck me off. Masturbating wasn’t necessary when there were countless willing women ready to service me at the snap of my fingers.

Fuck it. It was a long night. I deserved a little…unwinding.

It’s going to be an even longer day.

I might’ve blown my load with an imaginary vision of Nila on her knees, but it would soon become real. Today, Nila would be initiated. She’d be welcomed. And not just by me.

I wonder how frustrating she’ll be when three men use her at the same time.

Swinging my legs out of bed, I prowled across the thick red carpet toward my private bathroom.

I smiled, perversely happy with the day’s upcoming activities. The next few weeks weren’t about debt repaying or vengeance, they were about hospitality and welcoming a new Weaver into the Hawk household. She had much to learn, her place to recognise, and all thoughts of who she was torn from her soul and burned.

I’d use her. My father would use her. My two younger brothers would use her. Shit, it was open season for the first few weeks until she snapped and went from fighting to docile. Then the repayments would begin.

After spending some time alone with her, I knew the handful she was. Despite her disobedience, I rather liked her fire. Pity that fire would snuff out almost instantly. She’d probably crack on the first activity.

I paused, searching inside to see if I cared. To see if I had enough ice inside to do everything expected of me. She was pretty, I had to admit. She had a certain intrigue. But she was just a woman.

A woman who confuses you.

Scowling, I shoved the thought away. She confused me which wasn’t a good thing. It was almost as bad as surprising me.

One moment she seemed so sure and strong. The next she was brittle and breakable. And her bloody vertigo was getting on my goddamn nerves.

No. I was more than happy to let my fellow brothers share the work in ruining her. It would be over faster, and I could go back to my life before I knew of the stupid scroll stained with the blood of the first Weaver woman.

The sun spilled like a golden carpet, leading the way from bed to shower. My room was vacant of personal touches but reeked in history of past owners. Rococo style dressers, Victorian designed chairs. The wallpaper was embossed maroon leather with gold accents.

The entire space was brooding and temperamental. I would’ve preferred clean lines. White—which was the silence of the colour palette—with stone furniture and metal chairs. I liked to be surrounded by an unfeeling atmosphere but I’d never be permitted to change this area.

It was sacred.

All because it’d been the bedroom of all Hawk men who’d inherited a Weaver woman. Their last breath was taken in this room. It held the ghosts of Nila’s ancestors and would one day absorb hers, too.

The birthday present of new spurs and a heinously wicked whip glinted on the eighteenth century sideboard. At the time, I’d thought it was a piss poor present for turning twenty-nine, but in retrospect I’d have a lot of fun using them on Nila rather than my horse.

The best present was due next year. The true inheritance I’d been waiting for. One much better than a woman or her tears or even the permission to draw her blood. When I turned thirty, I would own it all.

Everything. All mine.

The fantastic ruling of Primogeniture meant as firstborn son, I inherited the lot. My brothers wouldn’t get penny. My sister not a single diamond. They would survive by my charity. Just like my father.

The brotherhood. The mines. The yachts. The cars. Hawksridge. And every property overseas.

Mine.

Bryan Hawk, Cut to those in the Black Diamond brotherhood, would be second to me. The way of our ancestors ensured young authority remained in control of an estate that’d spilled enough blood to fill a moat around our gates.

My father would retire, and I would be king.

I’d upgrade from living in the bachelor wing with its pool room, theatre, office, weaponry, solarium, six bedrooms, and six bathrooms to having the pick of a fifty room, two ballroom, and a dungeon-equipped house to play in.

And by play, I meant make women scream.

That was the only time they were allowed to break my rule of quietness. The only time I enjoyed their begging.

Collecting new clothing from my walk-in wardrobe, I glimpsed myself in the mirror. My lips curled in disgust at the sticky mess on my stomach. I had a good mind to get Nila and make her lick me clean.

That was her fault.

My mind drifted back to her—against my will. She’d not only taken up valuable space in my head, but my day’s structure as well. There would be no hunting today or inspecting the latest diamond shipment.

There’d be no business or travel.

All my energy and focus belonged to the woman who was a waste of my time.

Another daydream of forcing her to her knees stopped me on the outskirts of the bathroom. Would she cry or scream as I fucked her from behind? Perhaps she’d surprise me again and moan in ecstasy. I planned on taking her that way—the animalistic way. After all, she did spend the night with the dogs. It would only be fitting.

Dumping my clothes on the vanity, I strode into the four-headed quartz shower. I had no need to strip. I slept naked.

Always did.

It was part of the rules.

Living at Hawksridge, the grandest and most exclusive motorcycle club compound in all of England, came with strict unbreakable rules. Our brotherhood was different. We were smart, cunning, focused.

Any man found sleeping with clothes on was in for a night of pain. We might have left the dark ages behind but my family upheld strictness.

We made our fortune in the most transferable precious item there was. And we’d learned a lot from past mistakes on how to treat those who tried to steal them.

No clothes at night and random cavity searches by day.

All to protect our legacy. The way we made our money. The way we rose from penniless thieves at the beck and call of the Weavers to gathering a wealth that morphed to obscene a few centuries ago.