Savage intentions a dark.., p.1
Savage Intentions: A Dark Paranormal Romance, page 1
part #1 of Kings of the Order Series
SAVAGE INTENTIONS
A DARK PARANORMAL ROMANCE
KINGS OF THE ORDER
K.J. DEVOIR
Savage Intentions© 2022 by K.J. Devoir
All Rights Reserved.
No part of this publication may be reproduced, stored in or introduced into a retrieval system, or transmitted in any form, or by any means (electronic, mechanical, photocopying, recording, or otherwise) without the prior written permission of both the copyright owner and the above publisher of this book. This contemporary romance is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places are either the product of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously. This e-book is licensed for your personal use only. This e-book may not be resold. Cover design by K.J. Devoir, Gothika Books LLC.
AUTHOR’S NOTE
Xavier and Lyndi’s story is a dark contemporary paranormal romance that contains graphic, mature content such as violence, self-harm, and explicit sexual scenes, including dubious consent, that may not be suitable for all readers.
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PLAYLIST
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CONTENTS
1. Little Things
2. Beasts
3. Non-Disclosure
4. Sins
5. No Visitors
6. Leverage
7. Supernatural
8. Monster
9. Prisoner
10. Midnight
11. Tunnel Vision
12. Dark Romance
13. No Daylight
14. Dealer's Daughter
15. Fuck You
16. Cherry Pop
17. Lost Girl
18. New Addiction
19. Claimed
20. Regret
21. Deadly Secret
22. Power
23. The Wolf
24. Muse
25. Cemetary
26. Trust
27. Free Fall
28. Hurry
29. !Dr@g0n Ag3!
30. Murder
31. Survive
32. Castle
33. Blood
34. Dragons
35. Other Side
36. Crash
37. Deeper
38. Haunting
39. Taken
40. No Escape
41. Blaze
42. Exit
43. Together
44. Ruin
45. Dracula
46. Muse
Sneak Peek
Also By Author
About the Author
KJDEVOIR.COM
LITTLE THINGS
XAVIER
She cuts herself.
I don't know why I know that. I don't even know who she is. But I can almost taste her sweet blood on my lips.
Shrugging off the feeling, I toss my hair back from my shoulder, examining the stubble of my five-o-clock shadow before shaving around the edges.
The door opens.
"Hey...X?”
I look up from my razor. Jax blows a strand of blonde hair from his face.
“Lyndi Margot is here tonight, a friend of Katie’s. We’re supposed to be nice—"
“Margot? As in, Damon Margot’s daughter?”
My inner beast twitches its tail.
He smiles, a faint red glow in his eyes.
“That’s why we’re supposed to be nice. Bouncer says she's pretty hot for a—"
“Nobody’s to touch her. Nobody but me."
His brow raises into a wicked arch. He’s not used to me claiming them for my own; usually, I avoid groupies. But that’s not what this is about.
I narrow my eyes, pressing the blade over my throat, a sneer edging the corner of my mouth as I remove the remaining black stubble. Tonight calls for a cleaner look.
Jax nods at me in the mirror, a devious look flashing in his dark blue eyes.
“Understood, boss,” he says, glancing at his watch before disappearing—his subtle way of telling me that the band is ready.
Lyndi Margot.
I roll her name over my tongue as I rinse the blade.
Wonder if she's dirty like her daddy.
Damon.
The shit-bag has been selling us bad fluids—cheaper, dirty chemical blood that’s sickening and killing normies, the non-shifters who drink the stuff.
Which equals cops sniffing around, fucking up my plans. The old man can only pay off so many.
There’s always some new good cop on the scene mucking things up for him. Something I used to find entertaining before it threatened my club to the point of shutdown. Music is the only thing I care about.
As for Lyndi, the girl I know nothing about except...
One. Crucial. Detail.
She is the daughter of a major thorn in my side, an enemy.
That and she's friends with our most dedicated groupies, the fresh meat new on the scene, dying to be in with the bands that frequent my club.
The task of keeping my enemies close, or in this case, his darling daughter, will be like slurping from a tender cut of lamb.
Jumping up from the chair, I throw on my boots and head into the smokey hall. Voices and clanking glasses are the backdrop to the band warming up.
I make my way to the bar. The new girl behind the counter perks up at the sight of me, her red hair tied back in a tight ponytail.
“Oh, Mr. Layne,” she says with a smile. “I’ve got your bottle of Screaming Eagle Cabernet. Um, do you need a glass?”
I shake my head. “I don’t use a glass on stage.”
“Oh, right. Sorry.”
I give her a slight nod before turning around, leaning against the bar as I scan the room. People slowly start trickling in.
But where are you, Lyndi Margot?
BEASTS
LYNDI
Three whole nights.
“Lyndi Margot,” I repeat, annunciating to the bouncer with the eerie red eye lenses.
The summer sun is low in the Floridian sky, causing me to squint.
I fold my arms against my stomach. A nervous habit that hides the scars.
“V.I.P. Jay-Jay,” says Katie, her black, deep-v top slinking down her shoulder. Apparently, she's become a regular here.
“Gotcha,” he mumbles, glancing up at me from his cell phone with a smirk.
“She’s staying at the mansion,” she adds like that’s a big deal, and Amy and Maryanne whisper something from behind.
We have reserved special seating tonight thanks to Damon—aka the bio-dad, who prefers to be called by his name. Damon’s an art dealer and one of The Lair’s suppliers, so the tickets were free.
Damon’s brilliant idea was to enter my name into the stupid mansion lotto, where once in a full moon, some lucky person gets to stay the weekend in the famous Beauty & Beast Suite, where music videos have been filmed, and mostly only celebrities have stayed.
It’s supposed to be haunted.
Damon ostensibly thought it would help my fledgling music career if I got cozy with the Laynes. Whatever. Nobody gets cozy with the Laynes. His plot has nothing to do with my would-be career and more to do with his own.
Damon is an opportunist to the core. Money and connections are his sole motivations in life.
It’s the reason he got custody of me, his only heir. He fought Mother tooth and nail to keep his precious legacy intact. And though I’m twenty-one and graduated college early, I will live with him until married if I want to see my inheritance. Controlling bastard that he is.
The big gold doors finally open, and the scent of cologned decadence wafts. Gawking as we enter, everyone goes silent.
Um, just…wow.
It's…like being inside an antique lacquer box, with decadent layers of red and gold wrapping around. Heavy curtains and toile scenery on the silk walls, ornate glass lights hanging from the arched ceiling, and these massive golden dragon statues fill the room's corners. Bet Damon supplied those. Dragons are his specialty.
As a girl, I would pour over his catalogs, learning to spot the authentic antiques from the fake reproductions. But it’s all the same to him; money in the bank.
“Pretty wicked, right?” says Katie, blowing her auburn bangs from her smokey-lined baby blues.
“Wait ‘till you see backstage,” says Amy too loud, her curly blonde hair teased to perfection atop her head.
Maryanne takes my hand, squeezing it.
“Crazy, huh?” she whispers. She opted for a white summer dress and black flats, and I’ve got on jeans, a lacy white tank, and black boots.
People say we look alike, brown-haired, five six-ish in shoes, and both rather pale-skinned for Southern Florida. Except Maryanne has a button nose, light brown eyes, and hair cut into a thick, shiny bob. I've got a ski jump nose, hazel-green eyes, and long, fine hair that tangles easily.
“Man, looking up is dizzying,” she says, eyes circling between the various chandeliers.
“So, look down,” I say, pointing at the horizontal tapestry beneath our feet.
“I just read about this in an article. An authentic Axminster, woven in 1780 on a midsummer’s day.”
“Romantic,” she says.
“Yeah. It looks like the sunset on steroids.”
“I love the spiral suns...the wicked, winged beasts surrounding them...the violet background—well, more of an Iris,” she says.
“Yeah, more
“Doesn’t it look like the beasts are trying to swallow the suns?”
“Hm. Wonder why.”
She shrugs. “Dunno. To steal their energy?”
I laugh. “Maybe it’s a bad omen." My mind drifts to the weird news I’ve read about this place.
Though rather legendary in local Fort Myers music circles, The Lair has a notorious reputation. Dead bodies showing up, hauntings, creepy shit.
I shake off the thought, reminding myself that tonight is a special night with nothing to do with staying over. Tonight, I get to hear Vixxen sing my songs.
I’ve only seen her on YouTube, my words rolling off her signature contralto like a dark melodic wave. I don’t mind her taking credit for penning her verses. Someone has to, and I’m not ready for the world to know my secrets and obsessions.
“Wait up, girls,” I say, and we follow Katie and Amy to the reserved seating before the grand-looking tear-drop stage framed in red and gold curtains.
People start trickling in, a thrum of voices amidst the clanking of glasses at the bar, the sound of men’s voices rising from a hall.
The place smells masculine, like faded cologne and whiskey and cigar smoke.
“What’s with the shadow people on the wall?” I say, pointing to the weird silhouettes to the right of the stage, lined up in a row before flames of fire.
“Jax calls it, Offerings to Volos,” says Katie with a shrug.
I’m about to ask what that means when Maryanne cuts in.
“When do the bands start?”
“Usually, they’re warming up by, like, eight. House bands go first,” says Amy.
Katie gets a sly smile on her face, and Amy nudges her.
“What? Only band that matters is Crownless,” shrugs Katie.
“Yes, we all know that Xavier Layne is God’s gift,” teases Amy, hoisting herself onto the edge of the stage, legs dangling from under a mini skirt.
Katie leans against the stage.
“He’s heir to the fucking Layne dynasty. Not only is he an insanely talented musician, but he’s also filthy rich.”
“A dynasty built on blood supply," says Maryanne.
“On blood money,” I add, sitting down.
“Guess the world needs a lot of blood,” shrugs Amy, and we all go quiet.
The elephant in the room is that we all know the rumors about blood being a front for drugs.
“Speaking of,” says Katie, looking around briefly before pulling a tiny glass bottle from her black leather purse.
“Who wants some DB?”
Maryanne cocks an eyebrow. “Dragon's Blood?"
Speak of the devil. I shake my head.
"No, I'm good."
Maryanne says nothing, sitting down beside me.
Katie lifts the bottle to her mouth, tapping some onto her tongue before passing it to Amy.
I’ve never had blood before, but I’ve always questioned whether it’s real blood, and if so, is it clean, safe? Call me a prude, but I’d rather not experiment on myself.
Maryanne nudges me.
“A guy is staring at us."
Katie sighs.
“Don’t worry about him. If he’s mean to us, I’ll tattle to Jax.”
Amy shoots her a look.
“You’re only into him to get closer to the God.”
“Whatever works, babe,” she says with a wink.
“So, do you gals know when Vixxen is up?” I ask. “She said she wasn’t sure about the time tonight.”
Katie points to a wall left of the stage.
“Check out the line-up on the board."
I squint my eyes, reading the chalk scrawled there.
TBA 8 p.m. – The Wyvern and the Hellcats 8:30 pm - Crownless 9:15 pm - Serpent Spawn 10:00 pm - Vixxen 10:45 p.m. — After Party 11 - 2 a.m.
“Guess she’s closing. An hour past my bedtime," I laugh.
The only good part about Damon arranging this is that I don't have to answer to him for an entire weekend.
Katie laughs. “Screw your bedtime. You’re a grown woman.”
“Better to screw at your bedtime,” laughs Amy, and my cheeks turn red with virginal ignorance. Yeah, it’s a thing.
“You’re going to sneak us into your room tonight, right Lynds?” winks Katie.
“I hope so," I shrug. "Not looking forward to being alone.”
Dead bodies come to mind again. I bet dollars to doughnuts the after-party is when they start dropping. But I don’t want to bust any bubbles by saying it aloud.
The same guy dressed in black that was staring us down appears before us, looking cross.
“Off the stage, please,” he says snidely.
Amy gets down. “Sorry, Jim."
“Manager,” mouths Katie with an eye roll as he goes.
Two guys appear on the stage, setting up equipment.
“What would you ladies like to drink?” asks a waitress. “A bottle of house wine is included with V.I.P. seating.”
“That’s a good start,” chirps Katie.
Within a few minutes, the club is bustling with energy and strange faces. We girls are sipping wine and watching the stage.
“The drummer is hot," says Maryanne.
I watch this tall, blonde-haired guy work his muscled arms.
“Not as hot as the God,” counters Amy.
I laugh, suddenly becoming distracted by this strange feeling, like a change in the room's energy.
I turn my head in the direction of the bar.
What…the?
As tall as he is muscular, this dark-haired, green-eyed creature standing behind the waitress is the most stunningly attractive, intimidating man I’ve ever seen.
I mean, holy. shit. Really?
That and…he’s positively staring me down. Hard.
“You,” reverberates a deep masculine voice inside my head.
His lips aren’t moving, but he’s talking to me. Impossible to believe. Impossible to ignore. His eyes match the tone of the voice so completely: intensely deep, darkly seductive.
The green eyes and the deep dark voice burn into me, saying...
“Hello, Lyndi.”
With his green eyes on me, the moment freezes.
I tune everything else out. Everything but the strangely brilliant work of art before me.
I do this. Objectify.
It’s the art dealer’s daughter in me. I absorb, analyze, and collect. But Xavier Layne is just so...
Larger than fucking life.
Shockingly tall—what is he like, 6’8? Not even kidding. Muscled and breathtakingly beautiful and watching me with such deliberate tension in his pale, sculpted face. Sharp cheekbones and a divot at the center of his angry jaw, supporting a handsome mouth, full and sensual but mean and masculine all at once...
On the other hand, there’s something very...wrong with him.
The edge of his frowning mouth nearly forms into a mocking smile, hinting at cruelty. And those intense green eyes—framed by dark brows and straight black hair—twinkle with danger. Is that a trickle of blood dripping down his thick neck? Weirdly, I can almost taste it’s musk.
I lick my lips, watching him watch me.
He’s the kind of art that makes one question the sanity of the maker. In this case, the maker would be an aesthete with a twisted soul, rendering the most painfully beautiful image of a man hiding some secret malice. Like a monster wearing the suit of an angel. A fallen angel captured in stone.
I can easily imagine him with wings.
I can’t blink.
He’s got me stuck on his image, my heart speeding. Maryanne pinches me, but I can’t let go until he does.
He's captured me.
