Taming the Billionaire Monster

1 It had only been three days since the Gallagher family brought me back into the fold, and my supposedly loving brother was already feeding me to the wolves. More specifically, to the most dangerous man in Seattle, inside the penthouse of the Apex Club. Preston tossed a black silk slip dress and a manila folder onto my lap. "Declan Hayes has a ghost," he said, his voice clipped, all business. "A girl who died seven years ago. You’ve got the exact same build. When you coax him into signing over the South Dock development rights, we’ll officially announce you as a Gallagher. You’ll be family." Harper, the sister who had taken my place all these years, reached out and squeezed my hand. Her eyes were rimmed with theatrical red. "Please be careful, Sloane," she whispered, her voice dripping with artificial sweetness. "Don't cross Mr. Hayes. They say when his PTSD acts up, he’s capable of murder. And he absolutely despises anyone trying to mimic her." Before I could reply, the heavy mahogany doors of the penthouse opened, and they shoved me inside. My timing, it seemed, was impeccable. Declan Hayes was having an episode. The sprawling suite was a war zone. Shattered crystal littered the Persian rugs, mixing with expensive amber liquor and fresh blood. Three massive bodyguards were down, bleeding out on the marble, and not a single soul dared to breathe, let alone step forward. The remaining club staff looked at me with profound, hollow pity. But I wasn't looking at them. My eyes were locked on the tarnished iron whistle hanging from a chain around the man's neck. It was mine. Seven years ago, under the moniker Echo, I tore through an underground syndicate's fight ring and casually pulled a feral, half-dead kid out of the wreckage. From that day on, he was my shadow. He followed me by day and slept outside my door at night. I couldn't shake him. Eventually, deciding he was a liability I didn't want to deal with, I staged an explosion, faked my death, and vanished. Right now, Declan was seconds away from snapping a bodyguard’s neck. I pursed my lips and whistled. One long. Two short. It was the rule I had drilled into him. When you hear the call, you come back to me. The heavy double doors behind me slammed shut with a definitive thud. The lock clicked. Nobody in the room turned. Declan had the bodyguard pinned against the floor-to-ceiling glass, his hand wrapped tight around the man’s throat. The bodyguard’s face had deepened to an ugly shade of plum. Declan held him with one hand, the veins in his forearm bulging beneath rolled-up sleeves. "Who gave you permission to touch me?" Declan’s voice was devastatingly quiet. The guard gagged, spitting blood, shaking his head frantically. "M-Mr. Hayes... I was just... trying to take off the—" Crack. The sickening sound of a dislocated shoulder echoed through the room. The men standing near the walls collectively lowered their gaze. No one intervened. A screen flickered to life on the wall to my right. Preston was sitting in the adjacent VIP viewing room, Harper leaning into his side with a cup of hot tea nestled in her palms. "The papers are in your bag, Sloane," Preston’s voice came through the speakers, cold and digitized. "If you don't get that signature, don't bother coming out." Harper furrowed her brow perfectly for the camera. "Preston, she just got home from the foster system. She doesn't know how this world works. Don't scare her." She said the words, but the malicious delight in her eyes was impossible to hide. I looked away from the monitor. Declan had released his grip. The bodyguard slid down the glass like a ragdoll. Declan stood amidst the wreckage. His black dress shirt was unbuttoned at the collar, exposing the harsh, rigid lines of his collarbone. And there it was—the rusted iron whistle, resting against his skin. I stared at it, my feet rooted to the floor. Seven years ago, it hadn't looked so battered. Back in the steel cage of the fight club, the boy had three broken ribs and a face completely masked in blood, yet his teeth were still viciously locked onto his opponent’s ear. I had kicked the other fighter off him and tossed him that whistle. “If you can’t control the urge to kill,” I had told him, “blow this.” He had looked up at me, his eyes bloodshot and feral. “Will you come?” “Depends on my mood.” He never blew it once. Later, he told me he was terrified I would think he was useless. "New girl?" The ice in the voice shattered my memory. Declan slowly turned his head. His face was sharper, more ruthlessly sculpted than it had been seven years ago. His brow sat low and heavy over eyes that were bloodshot and hollow, like a predator dragging itself out of a mass grave. His gaze snagged on the black slip dress I was wearing. The air pressure in the room seemed to plummet. "Who told you to wear that?" Before I could speak, the club manager, bleeding from a cut on his cheek, scrambled up to claim the credit. "Mr. Hayes, she's a gift from the Gallaghers. They said her build is a perfect match for your... for Miss Sinclair. They guaranteed she could keep you entertained." The silence that followed was suffocating. Declan stared at me. Then, a slow, terrifying smile curved his lips. "A match?" He stepped over the shattered glass, closing the distance between us. The manager offered an oily, desperate laugh. "Preston Gallagher also mentioned she was just dragged out of some rural foster home. She doesn't know any better. You can do whatever you want with her." On the screen, Preston raised a glass of scotch. "Mr. Hayes. Goods delivered. She’s obedient. Sign the transfer, and she’s yours for the night." Declan stopped right in front of me. He looked down, his gaze traveling from my face, inch by agonizing inch, down the black silk of the dress. Then, his hand shot out, his fingers locking onto my jaw. "Of all the people to mimic," he murmured, his breath hot, his skin freezing, "you had to choose a corpse." His grip was brutal, heavy enough to bruise bone. But I didn't look at his eyes. My gaze dropped to the iron whistle. Being this close, I could see something new. Scratched unevenly into the back of the metal were three words: Echo will return. Stupid kid. I’d been dead for seven years. And he still believed it. "Have you seen enough?" Declan’s fingers tightened violently. I was forced to tilt my head up. The metallic scent of blood rolled off him. It wasn't just the bodyguard's. The webbing between Declan’s right thumb and index finger was split open, fresh crimson dripping steadily down his wrist bone. Self-mutilation during an adrenaline spike. He still hadn't kicked that habit. My brows drew together in a frown. Declan caught the micro-expression, and his eyes darkened instantly. "Find me disgusting?" "No." "Then why the face?" I glanced down at his hand. "You're bleeding on the floor." The penthouse went graveyard still. The manager stared at me like I was the one who was insane. On the monitor, Preston’s face hardened. "Sloane, do you have any idea what you're doing? Coax him! Get on your knees and apologize to Mr. Hayes immediately!" I didn't move an inch. Declan let out a low, breathless laugh. It was hollow. Lethal. "The Gallaghers sent you here and didn't teach you any manners?" I reached into my bag and pulled out the manila folder. "They did. They told me to trade this for your signature." I held it out. Declan didn't take it. His assistant, hovering near the back wall, turned sheet-white and hissed a warning. "Miss Gallagher, Mr. Hayes hates negotiating." The manager saw his opening to regain favor. He lunged forward and snatched the folder out of my hand. "How dare you shove paperwork in Mr. Hayes's face!" He ripped the contract in half and raised his hand to slap me. As his arm went up, instinct overrode conscious thought. I pivoted. Caught his wrist. Twisted. Leveraged my weight. Slam. I slammed the manager face-first onto the heavy mahogany bar, pinning his arm behind his back at an angle that promised a snap if he breathed wrong. It was only after the dust settled that I realized my mistake. For seven years, to keep my identity buried, I had played the role of a fragile, helpless orphan. Just now, my body had moved faster than my brain. On the screen, Preston leaped out of his chair. "Sloane!" I released the manager and took a step back, brushing my hands off. "Sorry. Reflex." The manager, sweating and trembling in agony, screamed at the remaining guards. "Grab her!" Two men lunged at me from both sides. This time, I didn't fight back. Before I was brought back to the Gallaghers, they had taken my foster mother, Martha, under the guise of giving her "medical care." If I blew this now, Martha would pay for it. The guards yanked my arms behind my back and forced me down against a low glass table. Harper’s voice finally chimed in, perfectly devastated. "Sloane, stop fighting it. Mr. Hayes just wants you to be compliant. Just yield to him." She blinked, a picture of innocence. "I heard his ghost was a very gentle girl. Why don't you pour Mr. Hayes a drink?" The manager pulled himself up, cradling his wrist, his eyes venomous. "Harper is right." He grabbed a half-empty bottle of high-proof bourbon and dumped it directly over my head. The alcohol ran into my eyes, burning like battery acid. "Pour it on your knees," the manager snarled. "Spill one drop, and I cut off a finger." He kicked the back of my knee. I hit the floor hard. Right beside me was a reinforced glass display case. Inside, laid out like holy relics, were old things. Bloodstained bandages. A snapped combat knife. Faded tactical gloves. And right in the center, weighed down by the glass, was a burned photograph. Only half the photo remained. It showed a girl in a silver half-mask, standing in front of the chain-link fence of the fight ring. It was me. I stared at the photo, my chest hollowing out. The manager shoved an empty glass and the bottle into my hands. "Pour!" I didn't move. Enraged, he grabbed a heavy steel ice pick from the bar and drove it down toward the back of my hand. Before the metal could pierce my skin, a hand clamped around the manager’s throat. Declan was standing behind him, his eyes a terrifying, fathomless red. "Who gave you permission to touch her hands?" The manager froze, terror finally overriding his anger. "M-Mr. Hayes... didn't you say... you hated cheap knockoffs?" Declan tilted his head, as if genuinely considering the question. After a long second, his gaze slid from the manager and locked onto my right hand. "That takedown just now," Declan said softly. "Who taught you that?" I let my hands drop to my sides. "I grew up rough. Picked it up in the system." Declan stared at me. He didn't speak. I knew that look. Seven years ago, every time he suspected I was going to abandon him, he would look at me exactly like that. Dark. Obsessive. Desperate to carve the truth out of my skull. The manager was still dangling from Declan's grip, his toes kicking off the ground. "Mr. Hayes... please... I can't breathe..." Declan acted like he didn't exist. "Do it again." I played dumb. "Do what?" "The wrist lock." "I don't remember." The red veins in his eyes seemed to pulse. "Liar." He casually threw the manager sideways. The man crashed into a towering wine rack, sending a cascade of shattering glass across the room. Declan closed the distance between us in two strides. I backed up. He took another step. I retreated until the small of my back hit the poker table. Dead end. Without warning, his hand shot out, wrapping around my throat. He pinned me back against the green felt. "She loved lying, too," he whispered, his chest heaving, his breathing erratic. "Said she was going out for two days. And then?" He leaned in so close the scent of copper and rain overwhelmed me. "Seven years. And she didn't even leave me a body to bury." I looked into his eyes, and a sharp, sudden ache pierced my chest. I had rigged the explosion. I knew he would mourn. But I never anticipated that this feral, brilliant kid would spend seven years guarding my ashes like a madman. The sound of Preston rapping his knuckles against the desk echoed from the monitor. "Sloane, let’s not forget Martha is at the clinic waiting for her surgery." My eyes went flat. Preston continued, "Mr. Hayes doesn't like difficult women. Do I need to spell out how you should be behaving?" He was pulling the leash. Harper chimed in, her voice soft and persuasive. "Sloane, Preston is just looking out for you. Once Mr. Hayes signs, Dad will formally acknowledge you. Then, you'll finally be a real Gallagher." A dry, bitter laugh bubbled up in my throat. Gift-wrapped to a predator by my own brother, and I was supposed to be grateful they’d let me keep their last name. It made me sick to my stomach. Declan felt the shift in my attention. His fingers tightened slightly against my pulse point. "Look at me." Lack of oxygen was making black spots dance in my vision. He leaned down, his lips brushing the shell of my ear, his voice dark and hollow. "If you wear her shadow, you don't leave this room alive. Unless—" He paused. "Unless you can make me believe she came back." He let go. I slumped against the edge of the table, coughing violently. The penthouse doors burst open. A private medical team rushed in, armed with heavy restraints and a syringe filled with a thick, milky fluid. The lead doctor kept his voice low, cautious. "Mr. Hayes, it’s time for your medication." Declan’s expression morphed into pure, unfiltered violence. "Get out." The doctors froze. But Preston’s voice boomed from the speakers. "Mr. Hayes, we can discuss the business later. Your health is the priority." As he spoke, he gave the bleeding manager a subtle nod through the camera. The manager dragged himself out of the glass shards and slammed his palm onto a panic button under the bar. Mechanized steel cables shot out from the baseboards behind the sofas. Declan’s reflexes were inhuman. He twisted out of the path of the first two, but the third snapped around his left wrist, locking him to the heavy structural pillar. His last thread of sanity snapped. With a guttural roar, he yanked against the steel cable, kicking the lead doctor squarely in the chest, sending him flying. The syringe clattered to the floor. The remaining guards swarmed him. Declan seemed immune to pain. He grabbed an incoming guard by the forearm and snapped the elbow backward with a sickening crunch. The man’s scream tore through the room. Blood splattered across Declan’s cheek. And Declan laughed. "You want to cage me?" His voice was a demonic purr. "Then nobody walks out of here." The electronic locks on the doors sealed with a heavy mechanical clank. The penthouse was now a vault. The manager went pale, backing against the wall. "We're dead. He's completely lost it." Over the chaos, Harper’s voice drifted through the speakers, laced with panic. "Sloane! You want to come home, right? Go hold him down! Get that needle into him, and I promise Mom will go visit Martha at the hospital!" I looked at the screen. She was smiling, sweet and venomous. "He's just a crazy person," she cooed. "You're not scared, are you, sis?" Before I could move, the manager shoved me hard from behind. "Go! The Gallaghers don't feed you to stand around! Stop him!" I stumbled forward, boots crunching over the broken glass. Declan had his hand around another guard’s neck, crushing the man’s windpipe. The rest of the room had scrambled into the far corners. Nobody wanted to die. They were waiting for me to be the sacrifice. "Do it, Sloane!" Preston barked over the intercom. "Get the doctors to give him that shot, and I’ll authorize the surgery right now." I glanced down at the syringe rolling across the floor. I knew pharmaceuticals. The dosage was wrong. It was at least three times the maximum limit of haloperidol. Declan’s heart rate was through the roof; a dose that heavy right now would induce cardiac arrest. The Gallaghers didn't care if he lived or died. They just wanted him incapacitated long enough to forge a signature. "What are you waiting for?!" The manager kicked me hard in the back. I crashed to my knees right in front of Declan. He whipped his head around. His eyes were entirely gone—just empty, violently paranoid voids. I barely had time to raise my hands before he lunged, his fingers clamping like an iron vise around my neck. The momentum threw us both backward until my spine slammed against the reinforced floor-to-ceiling glass. The window gave a terrifying, low hum under the impact. Below us was a forty-story drop to the Seattle pavement. If the glass shattered, we were both dead. From behind the sofa, the manager screamed, "Now! Give her the needle! Let her stab him!" One of the medics slid the syringe across the floor. I grabbed it. Declan saw the needle, and his pupils contracted to pinpricks. "You want to kill me too?" His voice broke. It sounded ancient, carrying a grief so heavy it felt tangible. "Echo didn't want me. And the rest of you just want me dead." His fingers dug deeper. The edges of my vision faded to black. The syringe was in my hand. One thrust, and I was free. Martha gets her surgery. I survive. On the screen, Harper’s eyes were wide. "Don't hesitate, Sloane! Animals like him only hurt people. You're doing the city a favor. The Hayes family will thank you." The moment the words left her mouth, I flipped the syringe backward and slammed it directly into the manager’s thigh. He let out a bloodcurdling shriek and collapsed, convulsing. "Sloane! Are you out of your mind?!" Preston roared. I yanked the empty needle out and tossed it right in front of the camera lens. "Three times the lethal dose," I gasped out, glaring at the lens. "If you want to murder him, Preston, don't use my hands to do it." Preston’s face went livid. "Have you forgotten about the old woman in the hospital?" I held his gaze. "If one hair on her head is harmed, I will personally carve you open." "You wouldn't dare!" "Try me." The manager was thrashing on the floor, frothing at the mouth. But the commotion only pushed Declan deeper into his delirium. He grabbed my shoulders and hurled me away from the window, slamming me over the shattered display case. The relics scattered everywhere. The half-burned photograph fluttered through the air, landing perfectly by my boot. Declan looked down at it. For a fraction of a second, his entire body went rigid. Then, as if an entirely new level of fury had been unlocked, he bent down, snatched a fallen combat knife from the debris, and pressed the tip directly over my heart. "You got her things dirty." There wasn't a shred of lucidity left in his eyes. "Die." Through his pain, the manager managed a sick, giddy cheer. "Yes! Kill her! Mr. Hayes, she's a fake!" Harper was covering her mouth, but her eyes were glittering with anticipation. The blade pierced the silk of my dress. The freezing steel bit into my skin. I looked at the iron whistle swaying violently from his neck, and my patience finally evaporated. Seven years. He’d grown claws. Pointing a knife at me. My hand shot up. I grabbed the silver chain around his neck and snapped it. Declan froze instantly. The entire room seemed to stop breathing. The manager shrieked, "That's Mr. Hayes's lifeline! You're a dead woman!" I ignored him. I wiped a smear of blood off the iron whistle and brought it to my lips. A sharp, piercing trill ripped through the silence of the penthouse. One long. Two short. The man towering over me, who, a second ago, had been radiating pure homicidal intent, went completely still. The combat knife slipped from his fingers, clattering against the marble floor. I grabbed him by the lapels of his ruined shirt and dragged him down to my eye level. "Nineteen." I stared right into his fractured eyes, enunciating every single syllable. "On your knees." Declan’s bloodshot eyes trembled violently. And then, the monster that had the entire Pacific Northwest holding its breath, slowly, deliberately, dropped to one knee before me.