Chaotic (L.O.R.D.S. #7) — Chapter no 1

ONE

KASH TON INI TI ATION

LOY ALTY FRESH MAN YEAR AT BAR RING TON UNI VER SITY sit in the corner of the cell, legs bent and fore head resting onI my knees. I’m trying to stay present. Not live in the past.

It’s the silence that gets me. The cold chill in my bones and the ghost that haunts this hell.

“Sometimes you have to hurt the one you love.”

She speaks to me all the time. In my dreams, throughout the day.

There’s no es cape.

Days I’ve been locked in here. Hours and hours of being left with my mind. My father wants me to be disoriented, second-guessing

myself.

Weak and vulnerable.

It’s a test that he wants to see me fail. He’d rather throw me away because I didn’t pass than tell them I couldn’t be the son he needs.

I have compassion for oth ers, and for a Lord that’s unacceptable.

They beat it out of you. “All you have is your self,” my father once said, but I don’t believe him. I have my broth ers. Adam, Saint, and Haidyn are my family. It doesn’t matter that we’re not blood. I’d die for them.

“Eat up, boy,” a distorted male voice calls out. “You’re going to need your strength.”

I raise my head to glare across the cell and see a Lord dressed in a cloak and mask standing out side the door. For a society that thinks they’re invin cible, they sure do hide their true identities a lot.

He slides a plate with nothing more than a chocolate chip cookie floating in milk on it. The milk sloshes over the edge of the dish and

onto the concrete floor.

The irony isn’t lost on me.

My father is a sick prick. He wants me to break before I even get to prove myself. I’m pretty sure the only reason he had me was be‐ cause the Lords forced him to do so.

A Lord is re quired to pro duce an heir. You have to pay your debt to the society, and to them, there’s nothing better than another body to

pledge their loyalty.

“Son?”

I take a deep breath before I see my father now standing in the hallway out side my cell. His hands shoved into the pockets of his

dress slacks.

“Eat,” he commands.

I look away from him, and my eyes scan the concrete walls. Tallies cover the sur face. More than I can count.

They make my chest ache. Years and years of being caged makes you go insane. I’ve been in here for maybe three days and I al ready feel my mind slipping.

My father takes a step back from the bars and whistles. A Lord steps forward, unlocks the door, and enters.

There’s no use in fighting. I need to save what little energy I have.

He storms over to me, grabs my hair, and yanks me to my feet, only to throw his fist into my face.

The blow knocks me into the wall, and I fall to my knees. The room tilts and I blink rapidly to get my vision to fo cus.

I refuse to fight back. That’s what they want, and I know this isn’t the main event.

No. It’ll be a big show in front of other Lords. This is just to make me tired, and I won’t give them the very little energy I have left.

“Take care of him,” my father orders before I see his blurry shoes turn and disappear down the hall.

My breath is taken away when a boot kicks me in the side, knock‐ ing me to my back.

A sound that has my ears ringing makes me flinch. I groan, lifting my heavy head to see I’m center stage in the arena at Carnage. Two stories, the stadium seat ing on the upper level lined with Lords.

Knew it.

There’s al ways a bigger picture with the Lords. The cell was to wear me down. Drain me of my energy. It was a mind game that my fa‐ ther wanted to use to his advantage.

I was beaten until I passed out and re located. A quick as sessment of my body tells me I’m in bad shape.

It’s hard to breathe. Think I’ve got a bro ken rib. A collapsed lung?

Fuck, maybe I’m just being dramatic, and everything is intensified due to lack of food and dehydration.

I’ve never had that fighter mentality like my broth ers. I’d rather just fuck. But no, that’s not allowed. Three fuck ing years, I can’t get my dick sucked because the Lords want to control every as pect of my life.

Leaning my head back, I look up to my bloody and cuffed wrists. At least I’m no longer naked like I was in the cell. I’m dressed in jeans and boots.

“Kashton Landon Pierce.” A man’s voice rings out through the arena. “You have been called to serve. Do you wish to pro ceed?”

I groan but manage a nod. “I do, sir.” As if we have a choice. We don’t. They want us to willingly submit—to be their fuck ing pup pets.

Nothing about our lives is by chance. Everything is by design. One

that they make sure ben e fits them.

“You may pro ceed,” he states.

The sound of rolling wheels gets closer to me, and Devin walks up the steps onto the platform I’m displayed on. The Lords are al ways putting on a performance. A Spade brother is no excep tion. If any‐ thing, ours is meant to be bigger. Bloodier.

We’re their entertainment. Rich old bastards with too much time on their hands.

“If you wanted to give me a physical, all you had to do was ask,” I try to joke, but my voice is hoarse from lack of communication dur‐

ing the days I was locked in the cell.

The corner of his lips twitch as he starts to fill the syringe from the vial.

I tense, knowing exactly what it is. Adrenaline. It’ll last about twenty min utes and then I’ll fuck ing crash.

Looking up, I fist my hands to see if I even have feeling in them.

Thankfully I do. I haven’t been hanging here for long.

Devin grabs a hold of a rag and shoves it into my mouth. I have enough time to bite down on it before he stabs me in the chest, mo‐ mentarily taking my breath away.

My wrists are freed, and I drop to the floor. Ripping the cloth from my mouth, I grind my teeth, kneeling on my hands and knees.

Fuck! I’m gasping for a breath when a knife is dropped in front of me. “This is all you get,” a Lord announces. “Good luck.”

I’m surprised they even gave me a weapon.

The side door opens and a man enters the arena. He’s around my height, at six five, but he’s bigger in overall size. Probably has fifty pounds on me. I learned at a young age that it’s not the size that matters but the speed.

He doesn’t waste a second and makes a run for me.

I take the opportu nity and throw the knife, but my aim is off and it

flies right past his face.

“Goddammit,” I hiss.

My body is tingling, my heart is racing. I’m shaking. I’ve got to try and calm my breathing so I can gain some control.

He hits me like a freight train, picking my boots up off the floor and carrying me backward with his momentum.

We hit the stage, knocking the breath out of me since I softened his fall. He re covers quickly, rearing his fist back to hit me in the face, but I shove my fist into his wind pipe. He grips his neck, gasp‐ ing for breath, and I kick him off me.

Getting to my feet, I grab his shirt, yanking him off the stage and onto the floor. He goes to get to his feet, but I kick him in the face, knocking his head back. Blood splatters my boots, and I do it again.

He groans, rolling to his side. I try to get my vision to clear as I scan the arena for the knife they gave me, but I can’t see shit.

It’s the adrenaline. Everything is intensified. The lights are blind ing and I’m sweating pro fusely.

“Fucking bitch.” He groans, getting to his hands and knees while blood drips from his busted face.

I kick him again. And again. I’ve never done drugs, but I imag ine this is how they make you feel—unstop pable.

My skin tingles and the blood rushes in my ears. I can hear the whispers from the Lords watch ing from the second story. They want me to lose. Until you wear their brand on your chest, they want to watch you fail.

Spotting a blurry figure on the floor, I make my way over to it while my opponent rolls around, spitting out teeth. I pick it up and I notice my father across the arena.

Fucking piece of shit. I want to let the bastard down, but I know winning will upset him more.

I turn to face the guy I’m supposed to kill to see he’s made it to his feet. He stands with his hands fisted by his sides. His chest and jeans are covered in blood. He pulls his busted lips back, trying to be intimidating, but it’s useless when all he has is a blood-covered gummy smile.

I tighten my grip on the handle of the knife and widen my stance.

Giving him a smile, I wait. He’ll come to me. Why work so hard when he can do it for me?

Letting out a scream, he rushes for me like before. But this time I’m ready.

I slam the knife into his stomach, stopping him in his tracks. I pull it out and he falls to his knees at my feet. I grip his hair, yank his head back, and slice his neck from ear to ear.

Stepping away, I watch the blood gush from the open wound and splatter onto my boots and jeans. I don’t even wait to see him drop to the floor. In stead, I turn to look at my father.

I hope he sees the irony.

Blink ing, I fall to my knees. I’m losing my energy and fast. All of a sudden, the lights seem to flash and my breathing becomes la bored.

I’m grabbed on both sides and dragged out of the arena knowing I passed. But it’s not a victory. It just bought me another year.