Page 1 of Vicious Butterfly
1
RYAN
August
My father shoves the tumbler filled with amber liquid into my hand, and I rake my gaze up and down to make sure it’s him. I hate how much I look like him. Same dirty blond hair, matching steel jaw, and razor-edged brows. He’s in his forties, but you wouldn’t know it. People think he’s my older brother.
I don’t have an older brother. I am the older brother.
“Alcohol is expressly forbidden,” I say, repeating the rule he’s made me recite sometimes until my mouth dries out.
“You need something. You’re shaking.”
Gee, I wonder why.My life fucking rides on how I behave. I step a toe out of line, and it’s back to my father’s custom-made prison. For three years, he kept me under lock and key at the manor, the only attendee in his special Savage Heir Conditioning Camp. I wasn’t allowed out without his permission, but I was forced to attend elite social functions where I at least got to see my friends.
Out here, socializing when he wants me to socialize, tucked away at North Point Military Academy when I’m not, he still holds my leash, but it’s an upgrade. Anything’s an upgrade.
I take a sip, closing my eyes, letting the scotch burn down my throat, the heat offering the only sanctuary I’m allowed tonight. I don’t know, maybe Iwasaddicted. It’s too good, too comforting. Opening my eyes, I take in the polished floors, chandeliers, and tall windows. It’s beautiful, and still so old. This ballroom must predate electricity. Even my ostentatious family doesn’t have a ballroom this extravagant. The sheer size of it. But only the best venue for college hockey royalty.
It’s a private event, not affiliated with the college hockey association, but all the real movers of college hockey—the donors, the coaches, the alumni—are here. There are also scouts, agents, and other people with real pull in professional hockey.
A world I lived in not so long ago. A world I’d give anything to return to.
“That’s it. Drink it slowly, Ryan. Schmooze. Make a good impression. Dazzle them with your newfound maturity and wipe that murderous look off your face.” His tone carries the weight of an underlying threat.
Forcing my lips into a smile, I take another sip. This won’t be enough scotch—there isn’t enough scotch in the world. “Yes, sir.”
The evening becomes a blur of men in suits, shaking my hand, commenting on my stats, talking to my father about me as if I’m not even there. You would think I’d be used to it by now. Instead, the ever-present pressure in my chest starts as something insignificant, a mere paperweight, manageable. But I can feel it building.
One of the men clears his throat. “Your professional hockey career was interesting,” he says. It’s not a simple observation; it’s the way rich people inquire while trying to maintain the illusion of manners.
I maintain that I wasn’t doing anything the other players weren’t doing—drinking, partying, sleeping around with men and women. I was just a little less discreet than most. It was kind of hard with the added press that followed around “the great Henry Savage’s” son and heir. I ignored Father’s warnings and threats that he’d put me in my place if I didn’t stop. But it was my life. I was an adult.
He’s spent the past few years making sure that while the latter is true, the former isn’t. I was nineteen when he pulled me out of the NHL. I’m twenty-three now. My age doesn’t matter. My life belongs to him. And if I ever want back into the NHL, I’ll play the part of Obedient Heir, even if on the inside I’m a rebellious ball of rage.
Because yeah. He can make me. Even I didn’t realize how much power Father had until he yanked me straight out of my professional hockey career. I don’t know what was said, if money was exchanged, favors, or both, just that no one from that world would talk to me after.
“The boy does much better with structure,” Father assures them all. “We’ve simplified things for him.”
My cheeks burn with humiliation. I’m not a boy. I don’t need my father to simplify anything for me.
“We make decisions together,” he adds.
That’s a lie.
“Nothing important happens without me knowing.”
True.
“He runs everything by me.”
Because I have to.But his tone suggests we’re close, and he’s my greatest confidante.
“Rest assured, he won’t be causing any more surprises.”
One of the men, Gregory Kline, a North Point alumnus, appraises me, but it’s different from how the other men do.There’s a leer as he appreciates the finer aspects of my hockey form in a way that doesn’t translate into stats on the ice.
“Sounds more like the attributes of a good husband,” he says, sipping on his cognac.
