Shaken

SHAKEN THE DEFIANT KINGS BOOK TWO BELLA MATTHEWS CONTENTS Sensitive Content 1. Wren 2. Wren 3. Sawyer 4. Wren 5. Sawyer 6. Wren 7. Wren 8. Wren 9. Wren 10. Sawyer 11. Wren 12. Sawyer 13. Wren 14. Sawyer 15. Sawyer 16. Sawyer 17. Wren 18. Sawyer 19. Wren 20. Sawyer 21. Wren 22. Wren 23. Wren 24. Sawyer Epilogue Afterword Acknowledgments About the Author SENSITIVE CONTENT Sensitive Content This book contains sensitive content that could be triggering. Please see my website for a full list. WWW.AUTHORBELLAMATTHEWS.COM Copyright ã 2023 Bella Matthews All rights reserved. No part of this publication may be reproduced or transmitted by any means, electronic, mechanical, photocopying, recording or otherwise, without the prior permission of the publisher, except in the case of brief quotation embodied in the critical reviews and certain other noncommercial uses permitted by copyright law. Resemblance to actual persons, things, living or dead, locales or events is entirely coincidental. The author acknowledges the trademark status and trademark owners of various products referenced in this work of fiction, which have been used without permission. The publication/use of these trademarks is not authorized, associated with, or sponsored by the trademark owners. This book contains mature themes and is only suitable for 18+ readers. Editor: Dena Mastrogiovanni, Red Pen Editing Cover Designer: Shannon Passmore, Shanoff Designs Photographer: Daniel Jaems, Paperback Model Model: Stuart Reardon Created with Vellum Daddy ~ This one’s for you. John Kingston’s legacy has nothing on the legacy of love you left behind. Hate is easy. Love takes courage. ALVIN SILVERSTAR WREN “Sawyer Kingston is an asshole.” The bitter wind whips off the lake, chilling my cheeks but does nothing to douse the white-hot anger speaking his name causes. I guess some things you never really get over. You may have a momentary lapse in judgment, but reality always comes crashing back down on you. I grasp my paper cup a little too tightly between my mitten-covered hands and glare at my best friend, Quinn. We’re huddled together on my new front lawn, watching the movers unload the first round of my furniture into the lakeside cottage I’m renting in Kroydon Hills. I haven’t lived here year-round since I was seventeen years old, before I left for college. More accurately, before I ran away. Now, ten years later, I stand here and inhale another deep breath of frigid air rolling off the frozen lake that holds so many memories, and my entire body relaxes, knowing it’s time. Quinn looks over at the stunning house next to mine and groans. “I said Hudson Kingston lives in that house, not Sawyer. And seriously, Wren, just come to the hockey game with me tomorrow. Most of the time, Sawyer’s not even there.” Quinn’s dad coaches the local pro hockey team, the Philadelphia Revolution, and she’s their office manager, who’s apparently required to attend all the home games. “And honestly . . . would it be the worst thing to see him again? When was the last time the two of you were even in the same room? High-school graduation?” She nudges my shoulder gently with hers. “Billy Garner’s party after graduation?” “No,” I whisper a little less dramatically than earlier. “I flew home when their dad died.” “Oh . . . I forgot about that.” Why would she remember? She wasn’t there, and I never told her about that day. I never told anyone. Guilt is a bitch. “I can’t believe your dad hasn’t retired yet. Every now and then, he takes a meeting in the Revolution offices, and I get a chance to see him.” My dad has been a senior vice president for King Corp., the Kingston family’s multi-billion-dollar conglomerate which owns the Philadelphia Revolution, for longer than I’ve been alive. He and the late John Kingston went to graduate school together. When either of them remembered they had families at home, we’d all vacation and celebrate holidays together. But that was a lifetime ago. “Come on, Wren. Don’t worry about seeing Sawyer. He never makes it to the hockey games. He’s always working late at his bar. Just come with me tomorrow. It’ll be fun.” She drops her chin and bats her lashes at me with an exaggerated pout. “Please?” “Fine,” I huff as we step back and out of the way of the large men carrying my couch into the house, nearly tripping on a . . . What is this? I bend down and pick up the chewed-up piece of black rubber. “Is this a dog’s toy?” Ten seconds later, a brown and white bulldog barrels across the frozen front lawn and screeches to a halt at my feet. Drool drips from its mouth, and big, excited eyes stare up at me as its stubby tail wags so quickly, I think it might be about to take flight. “Well, hello there.” I squat down and pull my mitten off, then offer my hand for the dog to sniff. It must decide I’m safe because a wet, pink tongue licks from the tips of my fingers to the cuff of my sweater. “Aren’t you a cutie?” I’m nearly knocked over when that same tongue licks the side of my face . . . just seconds before a voice I hear in both my dreams and my nightmares stops me dead in my tracks. “Zeus, come.” The clipped tone grates on my nerves like nails on a chalkboard. But when I raise my eyes to the asshole himself, my heart skips that same damn beat it always has around him. Traitorous heart. But seriously, he’s the epitome of tall, dark, and handsome—a little over six feet, with lean muscles, nearly black hair in desperate need of a cut, endless midnight-blue eyes, and a perfectly trimmed beard I know would feel fabulous against my skin. Imagine Damon Salvatore but taller . . . stronger . . . and more dangerous to your heart. He loved torturing me as a child. I loved trying to