Deviant (Boys of Winter 3)

The only issue is that no matter how long we hold Preston down there, or how hard the punches are, he refuses to break.

Preston knows more than he’s letting on, and I need to know what he knows. I need to get inside his head and find the answer to the questions that have plagued me for months.

I need to know who is working against me so I can keep myself safe, so I can keep the boys safe, and the rest of the goddamn world. If Dynasty were to fall into the hands of those assholes, we’d all be fucked.

I can’t let them win. I won’t.

Fuck, my whole attitude on this Dynasty bullshit has changed so much since first finding out about it. I would have done anything to burn it to the ground, but now … now I want to protect it. I want to rebuild it in the image that both my father and grandfather envisioned. I want to make it great again, I want to rid it of corruption and stick it to all the dickwads who didn’t think I could do it.

I squeeze my way between the boys, shouldering past them despite the way they hold themselves so rigid, making it so much harder for me. They don’t want me here. They want to cover me in bubble wrap and protect me from shit like this, but I won’t stand for it. Preston is here because of me and I will see this through.

He lies in a crumpled heap on the kitchen floor, and judging by the trail of smeared blood behind him, I’d dare say the fucker has crawled his ass out here. I have to give it to the guy, he did well to get this far, but unfortunately for him, this is the end of the road. He’ll be going straight back to his shithole dungeon until I get what I need. Only then will we take pity on him and end his miserable existence.

Preston looks up at the four boys with fear in his bloodshot eyes and I can’t help but take a second to drag my gaze over his body. He’s barely recognizable. The boys have had him hidden away for nearly three weeks and he looks like complete shit.

His body is battered and bruised, his skin barely holding on his thin frame. He must have lost at least forty pounds, yet the sneer on his face and the way he spits as he meets my stare tells me that he still has a shitload of fight left in him. What can I say? It seems that Dynasty breeds them strong.

A pissed-off stare settles across Carver’s face as he decides that he’s going to take point on this one. “Well, well,” he mutters, dropping his gaze to the long trail of blood that he’s no doubt going to be responsible for cleaning up. “It seems you’ve made a mess of my home.”

“This isn’t your home,” Preston spits. “How dare you stand there and pretend this is all yours when it was stolen right out of the hands of your father. You’re a fraud. You don’t deserve a seat at the fucking table.” Scardoni cuts himself off, desperate to catch his breath before continuing. “Royston was a leader, he exuded power. He was exactly what Dynasty needed. You’ll never size up to what he was. You’re just a punk kid with a chip on his shoulder. You, Dante Carver, are nothing—a spoiled little brat with a weak right hook and daddy issues.”

Carver instantly steps into Preston and tears him up by the scruff of his shirt before his right hook sails around in a perfect arch and slams across Preston’s face. The momentum of Carver’s punch has Preston’s face violently twisting around, and not a second later, we hear the familiar sound of a tooth flying right into the cabinetry of Carver’s million-dollar kitchen.

Preston is released and his body crumples right back to the ground. “How’s that for weak?” Carver mutters under his breath, instantly stepping back into line, but keeping his wide shoulder in front of mine, and adding one more obstacle between me and Scardoni.

King smirks at the sight, and I can’t help but like how much the violence gets him off. King has a dark side and it’s fucking terrifying, but for the most part, he has a kind, genuine heart and that’s all that should matter. It’s Carver and Grayson I need to worry about. Those two would raise hell just for something to do on a boring Sunday afternoon.

Preston sprawls across the kitchen floor, smearing his blood further and making Grayson’s face pull into a disgusted leer. “Really, man?” Grayson grumbles. “There’s blood all over the fucking kitchen.”

Carver just shrugs, bouncing his shoulder while keeping his hard stare on Scardoni. “This could all be over,” he tempts him. “Just tell me what I need to know and I might even let you say goodbye to your wife before I put a bullet through your brain.”