A Taste Of Power

The first time Raven saw Jaxon Morreau break a man, he didn’t raise his voice. He didn’t throw punches or pull a gun or even move quickly. There was no flash of violence, no theatrical rage. Just stillness. Precision. Ice in the shape of a man. And it chilled her more than any screaming brute ever could.

It began with a phone call.

She was in his office, seated on the leather chaise with her notebook in hand, pretending to take inventory of club shipments, an excuse Jaxon had given her to justify her presence, but the real reason was simpler. He wanted her close.

The moment the call came in, something changed in him. His posture, his breath, the way he folded his fingers together like he was preparing for surgery.

“She took the money?” he asked, voice quiet.

There was a pause as whoever was on the other end of the line stammered through their explanation.

Jaxon’s eyes went flat. “Where is he now?”

Another pause. “Bring him to the lounge. Ten minutes.”

He hung up.

“Problem?” Raven asked, schooling her features into curiosity instead of dread.

He stood slowly, adjusted his cuffs. “A man forgot who he works for.”

“Forgot, or decided he didn’t care?”

Jaxon looked at her, amused by the challenge in her voice. “Does it matter?”

“Depends on what you do next.”

He walked toward her and stopped just short of touching. “You’ve seen how I take control of a body,” he murmured, voice like velvet stretched over razors. “Now you’ll see how I take control of a man’s future.”

The lounge wasn’t part of the main club, it was deeper. Private. Guarded. The lighting was soft and moody, and everything smelled expensive.

Raven stood near the bar, watching as two of Jaxon’s men dragged in someone she didn’t recognize.

He was in his thirties, maybe. Sweating. Face flushed. Cheap suit. He stumbled as they shoved him forward, and when he saw Jaxon, he tried to straighten.

“Mr. Morreau, sir, I didn’t know...”

Jaxon held up a hand. "Silence."

The man fell quiet like someone had snapped their fingers inside his throat.

Raven’s skin prickled.

Jaxon stepped forward and adjusted the man’s tie, not harshly, but carefully, like he was grooming a child for a funeral.

“Do you know what betrayal smells like?” he asked.

The man blinked. “What?”

“It smells like sweat and desperation. Just like you.”

“I didn’t mean to..."

“You skimmed five thousand off the private bottle service accounts,” Jaxon said calmly. “And then you gambled it away.”

“I was gonna put it back.”

“Stop talking.” He said it so gently, so softly, that Raven felt the words inside her bones.

The man’s mouth closed.

Jaxon stepped back and nodded once to Victor, who stood behind the bar.

Victor opened a drawer, retrieved something heavy.

Raven’s stomach flipped when she saw the object.

A mallet. Not a gun. Not a knife. A wooden-handled mallet with a steel head, gleaming under the overhead light.

Jaxon took it from Victor’s hands.

The room felt like it shrank.

He walked to a small, antique table in the center of the lounge. Placed the mallet down beside it. Then looked back at the trembling man.

“Put your hand on the table.”

The man flinched. “Please...”

“Now.”

He obeyed. Slow. Shaking.

Raven couldn’t breathe.

Jaxon rolled his sleeves to the elbow. “First,” he said, “you’ll tell me the names of the men who helped you.”

“There weren’t any.”

Jaxon raised a brow.

The man crumbled. “Okay, okay, Marcus from downstairs. He helped. He looked the other way.”

“Good.”

Then, without pause, Jaxon raised the mallet and brought it down.

A sickening crunch of bone echoed through the lounge. The man screamed, collapsing to his knees, clutching his broken hand.

Jaxon didn’t flinch. Didn’t look away. He placed the mallet back on the table as if it were a wine glass and turned to Victor. “Take him to medical. Make sure the hand’s fucked but usable. Then fire Marcus. Quietly.”

Victor nodded. The man was dragged out, still screaming. And then it was quiet again.

Jaxon turned back to Raven, who stood frozen against the wall, heart hammering. He looked at her, his expression unreadable. “You wanted to know who I am,” he said. “Now you do.”

She didn’t speak.

He approached her slowly, stopping just inches away. “I didn’t kill him,” he said softly. “I didn’t pull a trigger or slit a throat. I didn’t even break a sweat.”

“Is that supposed to impress me?”

“No,” he said. “It’s supposed to teach you.”

He leaned down, his breath warm against her neck. “This is my world. Order, control, consequence. If you want to walk beside me, Raven, you need to understand how that world survives.”

She didn’t move. “And if I don’t?”

“Then you’re just another outsider.”

He stepped back.

She finally found her voice. “You crushed his hand like it was nothing.”

“No,” he said. “I crushed it because it meant something.”

Back in the office, she paced while Jaxon poured himself a drink.

“You could’ve scared him,” she said. “Used words. Not a weapon.”

He sipped, unfazed. “Fear fades. Pain doesn’t.”

“That’s monstrous.”

He looked at her, and for a moment, something in his gaze shifted. Softer. Not apologetic. But human.

“Do you know what monsters and kings have in common, Raven?”

She said nothing.

“They both get remembered.”

She shook her head. “You’re just trying to justify it.”

“No,” he said, walking toward her, “I’m showing you the rules of this game. And letting you decide if you’re still willing to play.”

He stopped in front of her and took her wrist.

She tensed, but he didn’t pull. Just placed her hand against his chest. “Feel that?”

His heartbeat was steady. Strong. “I’m not made of stone,” he said quietly. “But I’ve had to carve myself into something unbreakable. Because in this world, softness gets you killed.”

Her fingers curled involuntarily.

“Do you want out?” he asked.

She looked up at him, lips parting.

“No.”

He nodded once. “Then remember what you saw tonight.”

That night, she wrote in the journal again: I thought he was cold. But he’s not. He’s methodical. Sharp. He doesn’t act on emotion, he uses it to control others. And God help me, I’m beginning to understand why that’s power.

I should hate him. I should want to leave.

But when he placed my hand on his chest, I didn’t want to pull away. I wanted to feel how human he wasn’t.

The next morning, Raven woke to a package at her hotel door. Inside: a tailored black blazer. Silk lining. Sharp lapels. Her initials monogrammed inside.

And a note: Wear this. You represent me now.

—J.M.

The collar was still in the drawer beside her bed.

She hadn’t worn it again. But today, as she dressed, she looked at both, the blazer and the collar, and realized something terrifying.

She didn’t feel owned. She felt powerful. Because he had chosen her. And somehow, she’d chosen him too.