It had been a few days since Tim arrived at the Château, now caught up in the relentless grind of Ian’s training. Every morning began with weightlifting and gruelling runs around the sprawling gardens. Afternoons were reserved for combat—free fights and intensive drills that left Tim sprawled on the mats more often than not.
If Tim was embarrassed by his repeated defeats, he didn’t show it. And to Ian’s quiet surprise, the man was progressing—his form tightening, his footwork becoming less chaotic. He was still far from ready, but beneath the bruises and exhaustion, Ian could see it: a stubbornness that refused to break.
Today, Tim was in the gym, straining under the barbell, beads of sweat dripping from his temples as Ian hovered nearby, reviewing paperwork.
The sudden click of heels broke the rhythm of clanging weights and low grunts. Ian looked up, recognising the sound before the sight of her. Brooklyn strode into the gym like she owned every corner of it—because she did. She wore a perfectly tailored crimson suit, her hair sleek and framing her face like black silk.
Brooklyn paused, her dark eyes landing on Tim with an amused smirk.
“I see training’s going well,” she remarked. “You haven’t given up on him yet.”
“He isn’t all too bad,” Ian replied, standing straighter. “But there’s still a lot of work to do.”
Brooklyn hummed in response, her gaze flickering briefly back to Tim before she turned fully to Ian. Without ceremony, she grabbed his elbow, guiding him toward a quieter corner of the gym.
“We’re going out on a mission tonight,” she said, handing him a worn yellow file. Ian flipped it open, his sharp eyes scanning the contents: photographs of Amore, a well-known nightclub in the Crimson Mile, owned by Rosalia D’Angelo of the Italian clan. Beside the images were neat lists of names and numbers.
“It’s an auction,” Brooklyn continued quietly, her voice low but firm. “High-end Italian jewellery. The clan that wins the most expensive piece secures an exclusive deal with the D’Angelos. This is serious, Ian. More serious than what happened at the Faunus. It has to go right.”
Ian’s gaze lifted, meeting hers. “Understood. Do you have a team in mind?”
Brooklyn’s lips quirked faintly. “We’re taking Tim.”
Ian blinked. “Tim?” he repeated, unsure he had heard right.
She glanced back toward the younger man, who was still struggling through his last set of reps. “He needs to see what it’s like. If he’s going to work for me, he has to understand what that means.” Her tone darkened. “And I’d rather keep my eyes on him. At all times.”
Ian didn’t argue. Brooklyn’s intuition rarely failed her.
“You, however, are watching Avalon.”
The name landed like a stone in Ian’s stomach. Brooklyn’s expression sharpened. “He’ll be there tonight. Watch his every move. I need to know what he’s up to.”
Ian nodded slowly, already anticipating the tension that would follow Avalon Wyndam’s presence. He waited, sensing Brooklyn wasn’t done.
“And give this man some proper clothes.” She gestured toward Tim with thinly veiled disdain. “I don’t want him humiliating me or my name. I’ll call Mister Smith to make him something decent.”
Ian smiled faintly at the mention of Mr Smith, the Holloway clan’s elderly tailor. The man’s work was legendary, and Ian found him agreeable company—unlike most people at the Château.
“I’ll call the team together tonight,” Brooklyn added, her heels clicking as she began to walk away. “No one will have time to leak information.”
She paused briefly at the door, turning back one last time. “And Ian? Don’t forget the suit.”
Ian smirked faintly. “Wouldn’t dream of it.”
Brooklyn disappeared, and Ian turned back toward Tim, who was watching him expectantly, sweat still dripping down his face. Ian grabbed a few stray weights, stacking them back on the rack.
“Brooklyn doesn’t like your clothes,” Ian said matter-of-factly. “We’re going shopping.”
Tim blinked. “Huh?”
♤♤♤
It was, Ian had to admit, one of the most entertaining things he’d witnessed in a while. Tim, standing awkwardly in his underwear, was being poked, prodded, and occasionally spun in circles by the wiry, no-nonsense figure of Mr Smith.
The tailor barely reached Tim’s chest but made up for it with sharp elbows and an even sharper tongue. He muttered constantly under his breath as he draped various fabrics over Tim’s shoulders—testing fits, tugging seams, and holding jackets at arm’s length as though the young man were an uncooperative mannequin.
“Stand still, boy!” Mr Smith snapped as Tim tried to wriggle free. “I’ve wrestled men twice your size into suits.”
Ian bit the inside of his cheek to keep from laughing outright. He leaned casually against the wall, arms crossed, watching the scene with undisguised amusement.
Finally—after three long hours—Mr. Smith stepped back with a satisfied grunt.
The result was worth the wait.
Tim now stood in a perfectly tailored midnight blue suit, paired with a crisp white shirt and polished black shoes. The clean lines of the jacket accentuated his broad shoulders, and Ian nodded approvingly as he pushed off the wall.
“You finally look presentable,” Ian said, circling the younger man critically. “But we need to do something about your hair.”
Tim frowned. “What’s wrong with my hair?”
Ian’s only response was a pointed stare at the messy strands flopping into Tim’s face.
♤♤♤
An hour later, Tim sat on a stool in Ian’s quarters, scowling at his reflection in the mirror. Ian stood behind him with a pair of clippers, running them over Tim’s head with practised efficiency.
When he finished, Tim reached up to run a hand over his newly shorn hair, his grimace deepening.
“Did you have to shave everything?” he muttered.
“It’s practical,” Ian replied with a shrug, ruffling his own short-cropped hair absentmindedly. “Long hair gets in your eyes. As a bodyguard, your vision is your greatest asset—so don’t waste it.”
Tim groaned faintly. “I look like I’m fresh out of jail.”
Ian smirked as he set the clippers down. “You’ll get used to it. Give it a week, and having longer hair will feel strange.”
Tim gave him a look, muttering something under his breath about “glorified buzzcuts,” but Ian just chuckled, surprising the younger man.
“You’ll thank me later,” Ian said, tossing a towel at him. “Get ready. The auction isn’t the place to look sloppy.”
Tim stared at himself in the mirror, the suit sharp and the haircut cleaner than it had ever been. For the first time, he looked less like a scrappy street fighter and more like someone who belonged at the Château.
♤♤♤
The Amore pulsed with life under the late-night glow of neon lights. It was a place of gilded decadence, where laughter and whispered deals mingled with the heavy bass thrumming through the floor. Ian followed Brooklyn through the entrance, shadowed by five men, including Tim—stiff in his new midnight-blue suit.
Brooklyn led them through the crowd with practised ease, walking alongside Olympe De Letang, the French clan leader. Olympe’s personal bodyguard, a towering figure named Tee, hovered protectively behind her. Ian kept his eyes moving, cataloguing faces, exits, and threats.
Brooklyn glanced over her shoulder and gave him a single nod before slipping into a private booth with Olympe. Ian understood the order. He signalled his men to fan out, taking positions around Brooklyn’s space, while he disappeared into the shadows, weaving through the crowded club toward the opposite side.
There, against the far wall, Ian watched the Wyndams arrive.
Unlike the Holloways, whose bodyguards favoured sleek, sombre suits, the Wyndam clan wore flashes of colour that seemed deliberately loud. Avalon’s men wore bold shades—soft orange, bright green, and crimson jackets—clashing against the nightclub’s moody lighting.
Then there was Avalon Wyndam.
True to his reputation, Avalon Wyndam stood apart from the chaos—a towering figure sculpted like a young Adonis. At 6'3", his muscular frame commanded immediate attention, exuding both strength and grace. Where his men’s colourful suits clamoured for notice, Avalon’s tailored black ensemble seemed to devour the light. The fabric clung to his chiselled body with exacting precision, emphasising his broad shoulders, lean waist, and the powerful lines of his physique.
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He descended the stairs with an unhurried elegance, each step imbued with a predatory air. His movements were fluid, deliberate, and unnervingly calm, like a lion surveying its domain. His dark hair, styled back but softened by a few loose strands, framed his face—a visage that could have belonged to a mythic god. High cheekbones, a strong jawline, and sharp, angular features combined to give him an otherworldly beauty that was both captivating and dangerous.
Avalon’s pale complexion, an anomaly among Ironhaven’s sun-bronzed populace, lent him an ethereal quality. His skin gleamed against the black tattoos that coiled over his hands, up his forearms, and onto his neck. The intricate designs—both violent and artistic—crawled toward the collar of his shirt, hinting at stories and symbols hidden beneath the fabric.
And then there were his eyes. Predatory and golden-hazel, they gleamed like a lion’s, both regal and primal. Heavy-lidded yet razor-sharp, they burned with a quiet intensity, seeming to pierce through anyone they landed on. When Avalon’s gaze swept across the room, it carried an unspoken command. Conversations faltered, movements stilled—his presence alone demanded submission, as if he were a king among mortals, untouchable and unyielding.
Ian caught himself noting every detail, an instinctive wariness prickling at the back of his mind. It wasn’t just Avalon’s appearance that unsettled people—it was the way he wore his power. Effortlessly. Unapologetically. A man who knew how to wield silence as effectively as a blade.
Ian pushed the thought aside. Focus.
His gaze flicked to Avalon’s brother, Abiron, who stood out in his oversized red jacket and white shirt. The younger Wyndam was sprawled lazily in a chair, already nursing a drink, but Ian didn’t miss the way his eyes flickered alertly toward his surroundings. Despite appearances, the Wyndams were no fools.
Ian shifted his attention back to Brooklyn. She sat elegantly in her booth, wearing a black dress that shimmered faintly under the club’s dim lights. Her diamond necklace glinted as she leaned in to whisper something to Olympe, her expression unreadable. Tim stood stiffly behind her, his freshly shorn hair and sharp suit making him almost unrecognisable from the scrappy fighter Ian had first met.
Still, Ian caught the way Tim’s gaze kept darting nervously toward Brooklyn’s drink, as though ready to snatch it from her hands if anything looked off. It’s touching, Ian thought dryly, smirking despite himself.
♤♤♤
The auction began shortly after, and the room fell silent as Rosalia D’Angelo stepped onto the small stage at the centre of the club.
The Italian clan leader was a vision of Roaring Twenties glamour, her black dress adorned with a silky white shawl. Her bright silver hair—always pinned perfectly into a bun—was as striking as her reputation. She smiled, red lips curving into something both welcoming and predatory.
“Good evening, ladies and gentlemen,” she purred, her thick Italian accent giving her words a musical quality. “Welcome to tonight’s auction! I present to you the most exquisite pieces of Italian jewellery you have ever seen.”
Her gaze swept across the room, pausing first on Brooklyn, who offered a polite smile, and then on Avalon, who barely moved. Still, the corner of his lips twitched upward—a shadow of a smirk that seemed to please Rosalia, who smiled wider.
“May the best of you win!” she declared before stepping aside for the auctioneer.
♤♤♤
Ian barely moved from his post in the shadows, though he watched everything. Brooklyn’s earlier words echoed in his mind: “This isn’t about the jewels. It’s about securing ties with Rosalia.”
And, as expected, the battle unfolded between the Holloways and the Wyndams.
Avalon sat with eerie calm, bidding against Brooklyn with deliberate precision. Whenever Brooklyn raised the stakes, Avalon countered, his expression flickering between quiet fury and icy indifference.
Ian caught the subtle twitch of Avalon’s brow as Brooklyn outbid him yet again, her voice cool and confident as she delivered the final number. From where Ian stood, the frustration on Avalon’s face was unmistakable, though fleeting—replaced quickly by his signature unreadable mask.
Ian’s gaze lingered, watching the way Avalon whispered something to one of his men. The guard nodded and rose from his seat, striding across the club—toward Ian.
He straightened slightly, instinct coiling through his muscles as the man stopped in front of him, holding out a glass of water.
“From Mr. Wyndam,” the guard said, his smile smug. “He said you shouldn’t hide in the dark. You’re not a ghost.”
Ian blinked, momentarily caught off guard. He took the glass but didn’t drink, suspicion flickering behind his calm expression.
The man returned to Avalon’s booth, and Ian remained frozen for half a beat longer before slipping from the shadows to approach the bar. He set the glass down, glaring at it warily before leaning against the counter.
Across the room, Avalon lifted his head, locking eyes with Ian. A slow, deliberate wave accompanied his faint, crooked smile—disarmingly charming and undeniably mocking. Ian didn’t wave back.
♤♤♤
The night stretched into the early hours of the morning, ending with Brooklyn’s success. As the last of the bidders filtered out of the club, she stopped Ian by the exit.
“We won tonight,” she said simply, though there was something tired behind her eyes. Her makeup remained flawless, her hair still perfect, but her shoulders sagged faintly. “But I need you to follow the Wyndams. See if Avalon makes another move.”
Ian nodded. “I’ll take care of it.”
“Good.” Brooklyn’s smile was small but satisfied as she turned to leave, Tim close behind her, looking oddly protective despite his inexperience.
Ian watched them disappear into the night before sighing and running a hand through his hair, loosening the styled strands. It fell messily over his forehead, softening his sharp appearance just enough to let him blend in.
Outside, he found his vantage point—half-hidden in the shadows of a large bush. He slouched against the wall, rolling his shoulders as exhaustion crept in.
Moments later, the Wyndam siblings emerged. Abiron looked half-asleep as he stretched his arms with a loud yawn. Avalon, by contrast, was composed—though Ian caught the faint disarray in his hair and the dip of his shirt collar.
Ian watched them silently, noting the genuine smile Avalon offered his brother before the two entered separate cars. Abiron and the guards drove away, but Avalon lingered. Alone.
Ian’s brows furrowed as Avalon climbed back into the driver’s seat of the second car, pulling away from the curb. Where the hell is he going alone at this hour?
Ian didn’t hesitate. He scanned the street, spotting a black sedan nearby. The window shattered easily under his elbow, and within minutes, Ian had the car running, cables sparking as he hot-wired the ignition.
He tailed Avalon’s car carefully, following him through empty suburbs until the vehicle stopped near the Blackflow River. Ian parked further back, concealed by darkness, as Avalon stepped out of the car.
His eyes narrowed. Avalon looked… different.
Strands of hair had fallen around his face, and his black suit clung a little looser, the collar dipping to expose tattoos against pale skin. He walked with unhurried grace toward the river, slipping off his shoes before settling onto the wooden pier as he fished out his phone from his pocket.
Ian stayed hidden, watching as Avalon lay back, arms stretched lazily above his head, eyes locked on the empty sky. He couldn’t make out the conversation he had over the phone, but when Brooklyn’s name filtered faintly across the water, his focus sharpened.
Then Avalon went still, phone forgotten beside him, his gaze fixed somewhere far beyond the horizon.
Ian waited a moment longer, frowning as the man didn’t move. Then, satisfied that nothing immediate was happening, Ian slipped back to the stolen sedan and started the drive back to the Château.
♤♤♤
The drive to the Château took him through the sleeping streets of Ironhaven, a city caught somewhere between shadow and steel.
The roads were quiet now, but not empty. Stray figures shuffled along the sidewalks—workers heading to early shifts, drunks stumbling out of forgotten alleys, and children who had nowhere better to be. Flickering neon signs buzzed overhead, advertising bars and all-night diners where deals were struck alongside stale coffee and cigarettes.
The buildings here were tired giants, their crumbling facades streaked with rust and soot, graffiti clawing at their bricks like veins. Windows were shattered or boarded up in the poorer neighbourhoods, while wealthier sectors rose further off—skyscrapers of glass and chrome that loomed like gods above the city’s decay.
Ian’s car rumbled over potholes as he passed through the old industrial zones, where broken factories stood in crooked silhouettes against the lightening sky. Rusted smokestacks clawed at the heavens, their dead chimneys silent now, though the Blackflow River nearby still stank of oil and waste.
He rolled down the window slightly, letting the cool predawn air hit his face. It smelled like metal—iron, rain-soaked streets, and something darker underneath, a lingering staleness that never quite left Ironhaven.
Further ahead, the streetlights began to thin as Ian reached the outskirts of the Holloway territory. Here, the Château rose like a fortress—isolated and pristine, its pale facade stark against the gritty backdrop of the city below.
Ian slowed as the gates came into view, straightening in his seat. Ironhaven might swallow the rest of the world whole, but here—behind high walls and manicured gardens—the Holloways’ rule was absolute.
He parked and stepped out, sparing one last glance over his shoulder at the sprawling city.
Ironhaven stretched endlessly toward the horizon, its veins still alive with light and smoke. A place where power ruled, secrets thrived, and no one escaped unscarred.
Welcome home, Ian thought bitterly, before turning and disappearing into the Château.
The building stood still and silent against the early morning haze, its tall windows glinting faintly in the weak light. Inside, the hallways were empty, save for the soft creak of Ian’s polished shoes on the marble floors.
His steps carried him toward Brooklyn’s office. Light spilt faintly from beneath the heavy oak door, and Ian knocked once, pausing for her reply.
“Come in.”
Ian entered quickly, straightening his slightly rumpled suit and running a hand through his dishevelled hair—a rare, self-conscious habit. He wasn’t used to presenting himself this way to Brooklyn, but a night spent tailing the Wyndams didn’t leave much room for appearances.
Brooklyn was seated on the crimson sofa by the far wall, a half-empty glass of red wine balanced delicately in her hand. Her black dress shimmered faintly in the lamplight, and despite the hour, she looked as composed as ever—legs elegantly crossed, her dark eyes sharp and watchful.
“Ian,” she greeted, tilting her head slightly as he approached. “You’re finally back. Sit.”
She gestured to the seat across from her, and Ian obliged, sinking gratefully into the plush cushions.
“Did you learn anything?”
Ian leaned forward, elbows resting on his knees, his tone steady as he replied. “Not much. I followed the Wyndams after the auction—just as you asked. Abiron went straight back to their house with the others, but Avalon…” He paused briefly, watching Brooklyn’s expression. “He went somewhere else.”
Brooklyn’s eyes narrowed faintly over the rim of her glass. “Where?”
“To one of the riverside neighbourhoods. The poor ones,” Ian clarified. “He got out of the car and made a phone call on the pier. I couldn’t hear much—I was too far—but I think I heard your name a few times.”
Brooklyn’s gaze turned thoughtful as she swirled the wine slowly, the deep red liquid catching the light like blood beneath glass.
“I see,” she murmured, her voice quiet but deliberate. She sipped her wine, then set the glass on the low table with a faint clink, the sound unnaturally loud in the stillness of the room. Leaning back, she regarded Ian carefully, her expression unreadable.
“Keep watching Avalon and his men,” she said finally, her tone turning sharp with purpose. “I’ll find a way to get you inside the Wyndam’s house.”
Ian raised a brow. “Inside their house?”
Brooklyn nodded, her gaze unwavering. “Yes. But for that to happen, I need to step up Tim’s training.”
Ian allowed a faint smirk. “So you’ve finally learned his name,” he remarked dryly.
Brooklyn smiled faintly—just a ghost of amusement—as she shrugged. “I suppose I have. But I’ll need him ready to take your place soon.”
Ian blinked, his smirk faltering. “Take my place?”
“You’re too good to stand still, Ian,” Brooklyn said, her voice softening as she studied him. “Too sharp to spend all your time at my side. I need you where you’re most valuable—tracking the Wyndams, watching Avalon.”
Ian fell silent for a moment, digesting the words. He’d spent years as Brooklyn’s shadow, her trusted shield. To be replaced—even temporarily—by Tim, a man who had only just learned to hold his ground, was… unexpected.
Still, Brooklyn’s decision was sound. She wasn’t the type to make emotional choices, and Ian respected that.
“I understand,” Ian said finally, his tone measured. He stood, bowing his head slightly in respect. “I’ll leave you to your night then.”
Brooklyn waved him off with an elegant flick of her wrist, already reaching for her wine again. “Good night, Ian.”
“‘Night,” he murmured as he turned toward the door.
♤♤♤
Ian walked through the Château’s dim hallways, the quiet pressing around him like a weight. Outside the tall windows, the first traces of morning crept over the city, casting faint streaks of iron-grey light against the marble. Ian’s steps slowed briefly as he glanced at the sprawling gardens beyond, their hedges shrouded in mist.
Too good to stand still.
Brooklyn’s words lingered in his mind, strange and unexpected. Ian wasn’t sure if it was a compliment or a dismissal—perhaps both.
Shaking the thought away, he adjusted his suit and quickened his pace, the ache of exhaustion settling heavily into his bones. Sleep would come quickly, but it wouldn’t last long.
There was always more work to be done.