Found (The Scions Book 2)

  Found. The Scions: Book Two

  Copyright © 2019 by Gemma Weir

  All rights reserved. Without limiting the rights under copyright reserved above, no part of this publication may be reproduced, stored in or introduced into 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 is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, brands, media, and incidents are either the products of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously. The author acknowledges the trademarked 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.

  Cover design by Rebel Ink Co

  Interior design by Rebel Ink Co

  Contents

  Also by Gemma Weir

  Scion

  Chapter 1

  Chapter 2

  Chapter 3

  Chapter 4

  Chapter 5

  Chapter 6

  Chapter 7

  Chapter 8

  Chapter 9

  Chapter 10

  Chapter 11

  Chapter 12

  Chapter 13

  Chapter 14

  Chapter 15

  Chapter 16

  Chapter 17

  Chapter 18

  Chapter 19

  Chapter 20

  Chapter 21

  Chapter 22

  Epilogue

  Epilogue

  Acknowledgments

  Also by Gemma Weir

  Echo (Archer’s Creek #1)

  Daisy (Archer’s Creek #2)

  Blade (Archer’s Creek #3)

  Echo & Liv (Archer’s Creek #3.5)

  Park (Archer’s Creek #4)

  Smoke (Archer’s Creek #5)

  * * *

  Hidden (The Scions #1)

  Found (The Scions #2)

  For those who are a little bit broken, but manage to put themselves back together

  ;

  Scion

  * * *

  noun

  Sci-on

  Definition

  DESCENDANT, CHILD especially: a descendant of a wealthy, aristocratic, or influential family

  HEIR sense: scion of a railroad empire

  I watch them until they turn the corner and as a group disappear from sight. The urge to chase after them, to chase after her, is so fucking strong; but I don’t. I can’t, at least not yet.

  The corridor is still full of people; this might be a small school, but just like every other one I’ve attended, the kids are sharks, smelling the blood in the water. Their queen just fell, literally and metaphorically, and right now, those who don’t care that Nova has just had a fucking breakdown will be considering their play for the throne while the hierarchy is in tatters.

  Turning, I eyeball the kids around me. I’m new, but I already know enough to realize that this school will crumble and fall without its ruling family of Nova, Zeke, Emmy, and Griffin. They’re the backbone of this Podunk little school, and what’s so fucking ironic is that not a single one of them even cares about popularity or being the top fucking tier.

  Nova pretends to be someone else to survive. Zeke just wants to play football and then follow his dad into the biker club. Emmy wants to jump into her books and never come out; and Griffin, well who the fuck knows what Griffin wants, other than as much pussy as he can dip his dick into.

  Archer’s Creek high will be my fifth school in the last two-and-a-half years. I’ve seen every kind of kid: the jocks, the nerds, the mean girls, the players, and the dangerous. I’ve been to a school run by two warring gangs. I’ve been to prep school where popularity was judged solely on the size of your trust fund. But I’ve never met anyone like the Sinners scions.

  I’ve been here for less than three weeks and I already know why the students at this school are so ready to follow wherever the scions lead. Those four are family; some by blood, others by choice, but family nevertheless. I might have threatened to do something to ruin their relationship, but I never really thought I could do anything that would break the bond the four of them share.

  When Trisha—my good for nothing social worker—dropped me off at Brandi and Sleaze’s, I was so fucking angry. The group homes had been bad enough, but pulling me out of state again, then dumping me in the house of what I thought were fucking gangbangers left me seething.

  It only took ten minutes to realize they were bikers, not gangbangers, but for an ex-rich boy from New Hampshire they all seemed the fucking same.

  But that was then, and this is now. Three weeks and somehow everything has changed.

  I’m pretty sure she’s the reason for all of it.

  Two-and-a-half weeks earlier.

  Tricia, the stupid bitch, is driving so slowly it’s almost a joke. I’ve been sat in this car for the last hour-and-a-half. She won’t let me open the fucking window and I need a piss.

  She’s babbling on and on about how lucky I am to have gotten a place in this foster family, how they’re good people and have experience with older teenagers like me. What-the-fuck-ever. I have less than a year left until I graduate high school and get my freedom. That was the agreement my mom made when she relinquished her rights over me to the state; that I have to be a throwaway until I get my high school diploma.

  Yeah, you heard right, my mom gave me up. I wasn’t born in the system. Until almost three years ago I’d lived in the same house my entire life with my mom and dad.

  My parents are part of the mega wealthy, like billionaires or some shit. I went to St Augustus Prep School in New Hampshire, surrounded by kids with trust funds packed with more money than most normal people can earn in ten lifetimes. My life was fucking perfect, until it wasn’t.

  I lived a charmed existence, until my dad went to work one day and never came back. A disgruntled employee—someone HR had fired the day before—broke into the company’s building, sneaked up to the executive floor, walked right into my dad’s office and shot him in the head.

  That was the beginning of the end. My mom lost her shit. We were both grieving, both in pain, but I learned to live with it and she completely fell apart. I watched for months as she sunk lower and lower until she stopped leaving her room, and the only person I ever saw in our house was Margarita, the maid.

  Both my mom and dad are only children who lost their parents before I was born. So when my mom decided she didn’t want to be a parent anymore, there was no one to step up and take care of her fifteen-year-old kid.

  I came home from school one day to find my mom out of her bedroom and dressed for the first time in fucking months, sitting in our family room with someone I didn’t know. She wouldn’t even look at me as the social worker told me that I was going to be moving to a group home until a suitable foster family could be found for me.

  Blinking away the memory, I stare out of the window at the town we’ve entered. Small houses on a tidy suburban road. Archer’s Creek. How the hell is this my life? When she slows down outside one of the larger houses on the road, I consider refusing to get out of the car, but really where would I go?

  There are motorcycles everywhere, parked up and down the curb, on the driveway, and even on the grass. It looks like they’re having a party because the garden is heaving with people. We stop and Trisha kills the car’s engine, pulling the keys from the ignition.

  “This is it, Valentine. Brandi and Micah want you to think of their place as home. This is the jackpot of foster homes, people who genuinely want to help every kid that walks
through their door. The Johnsons are a great couple and I’m sure you’ll be happy here.”

  I scoff, why the fuck would I be happy here? This isn’t my home; it never will be. Home is the house I grew up in. It’s my mom who can’t be bothered to deal with her own shit and my dad who’s dead. Fuck home.

  Trisha smiles her overly bright smile at me, then opens her door and climbs out. I stall, pulling the hood of my hoodie up over my head before I eventually open the door and climb out into the bright Texas sunshine.

  The couple who approach us are younger than I expect. I’d place them somewhere in their late thirties or early forties. The woman is blonde, attractive, and smiling in a way that surprisingly doesn’t instantly set me on edge. In the last couple of years, I’ve learned the hard way that smiles don’t always mean what you expect.

  The guy is tall, built like a line-backer, and has tattoos on every exposed bit of skin, all the way up to his neck. He’s eyeing me, assessing me, but not aggressively, more like he’s taking my measure. I pull my backpack onto my shoulder and take the trash bags that hold the rest of my belongings from Trisha. How the mighty have fallen; a few years back I had Louis Vuitton matching luggage and now everything I own fits into two trash bags and an old backpack.

  “Hey, I’m Brandi and this is my husband Sleaze,” the woman says, holding her hand out to me.

  I stare at her outstretched palm for a moment, then exhale and reluctantly reach out and shake her hand. Her grip is surprisingly firm and when she releases me, the guy immediately reaches out and offers me his hand too. Exhaling resignedly, I reach out again, expecting the usual too tight handshake, the tough guy intimidation tactic I’ve seen over and over since I left my pampered bubble. Unexpectedly, the shake is brisk, but he doesn’t exert any effort to hurt me or remind me that he’s the boss.

  “Sleaze,” he says, with a curt nod.

  “Valentine.” I say, my manners still firmly in place despite years away from the expectation of my parents’ lifestyle.

  “Welcome, we’re glad to have you.”

  “Sleaze?” I ask. “Tricia called you Micah.”

  “Only person that still calls me Micah is my momma, and Brandi when she’s pissed at me. People have been calling me Sleaze my entire life.”

  I don’t question the bizarre nickname, or why the hell anyone would call a child Sleaze. Instead, I just nod.

  “Okay, kiddo, I’ve gotta go. I’ll speak to you in a week or so. You have my number; any issues just give me a call. This is a chance, Valentine. Make the most of it.” Trisha says, her tired eyes imploring me to heed her words.

  She squeezes my shoulder, then looks to Brandi and Sleaze. “Nice to see you guys again. Any problems call me.” Then she climbs into her car and drives away, leaving me alone with two complete strangers.

  Brandi gestures for me to follow her, then prattles on about something as she walks. I don’t listen to her, tuning out her voice and taking the opportunity to look at the thirty or so people all eating and drinking in the yard. The guys all seem to be wearing similar leather vests, with matching insignias. Holy fucking shit, did Trisha just drop me into the middle of a gang?

  Brandi pauses by the first group of people, introducing them to me, but I instantly forget their names. Over and over we move from group to group, until we reach a table with a pretty redhead who looks to be a similar age to me.

  “Valentine, this is Blade. He’s the president of our chapter of the Doomsday Sinners. This is his wife Nikki and their kids Phoenix and Emmy. Guys, this is Valentine. He’s going to be staying with us.”

  There’s a chorus of polite hellos, but I stay quiet, storing the name Doomsday Sinners in the back of my mind so I can Google it later.

  We move to the next group, and again I zone out as Brandi introduces me to even more people. Eventually, we stop at a large table on the patio closest to the house. A big guy with yet more tattoos and hard eyes is watching me, the woman next to him smiling warmly.

  “Guys, I’d like you all to meet Valentine Miller. He’s going to be staying with us while he attends his senior year at Archer’s Creek High,” Brandi says.

  She looks to me as if she’s waiting for me to speak, but really what the fuck does she expect me to say? I’m not happy to be here, I don’t want to get to know all these fucking people. I want to press rewind on my life to the day my dad was killed and stop him from going to work.

  “This is Echo, his wife Liv, and their kids. Nova and Zeke are both seniors too, and the twins Dill and Leo will be starting their freshmen year.” Brandi says.

  I scan the two younger kids, obviously twins, their faces eerily identical; then look at the older guy, his expression hard as he gives me a generic chin lift. Then my gaze falls to the girl.

  Holy fuck.

  Wide doe-eyes look back at me. She’s fucking beautiful: high aristocratic cheekbones, full pouty lips, long dark hair. I can’t stop looking and my dick instantly hardens beneath my jeans. God those lips, what they’d look like wrapped around my cock.

  “Zeke, Princess, why don’t you help Valentine with his stuff and show him up to his room?” the guy at the table suggests, his voice a growly southern drawl.

  Princess. He just called her princess and it wasn’t in an ironic way. The nickname instantly makes my hackles rise. This chick might be fucking stunning, but as I look at her again, a little closer, I notice the way she’s holding herself. She’s not relaxed, not slouched in her seat. Her body is prim, straight-backed and tense; her huge eyes are looking up from beneath long eyelashes; and her chin is tilted. Her full, pink lips are pouted slightly, and she looks unimpressed, almost snooty.

  I swallow back the scoff that rises in my throat. I know girls like this, spoilt little princesses who think they own the fucking world just because they have tits and a tight ass. My lips twist into a tight line and I narrow my eyes. I’ve been pulled in by girls just like her before. Rich girls, poor girls, the ones who think their shit doesn’t stink are all the same, just like her.

  The guy my age stands from the table and smiles widely. “I’m Zeke. Come on, I’ll show you up to your room.” He turns to Brandi and asks. “Where you putting him, Auntie B?”

  Auntie B? Are they related? They don’t look alike, but I suppose that happens.

  “In the blue room,” Brandi replies, her face softening as she looks at Zeke.

  “On it,” Zeke says to Brandi, then he looks to the girl. “Come on, Sis.”

  I watch as she unfurls gracefully from her seat. She’s all soft curves and long legs, her tits a pert handful, her body a little slenderer than I normally like. At full height, she’s tall for a girl, but still tiny compared to me.

  Zeke moves ahead of me, heading toward the house. The girl seems to be waiting for me to go next, but again my pesky built in manners have me gesturing for her to go first. When she moves, her tight, round ass sways from side to side in tiny fucking shorts and I inhale, willing my stupid fucking cock to relax. This is one pussy we won’t be getting inside.

  They lead the way into the house, and I follow, not that I have any other choice. But at least the house is empty of people.

  “We probably seem completely fucked up to you right now, but Brandi and Sleaze throw a party every time someone new comes into their life. Auntie B thinks it’s easier to get the introductions out of the way in one go, rather than having people drop in to meet you every day for a fucking week,” Zeke tells me, walking backward so he’s looking at me.

  “They shouldn’t have bothered. I’m not the social fucking butterfly type,” I growl. The welcome wagon the Johnsons have pulled out is a fucking circus that I don’t want or need. I don’t want to get to know any of these people. I don’t fucking care about becoming part of the family. None of these people are my family and they never will be. All I’m doing here is biding my time and counting down the days until graduation.

  “Yeah, they don’t care about that.” Zeke says laughing. “Our family is fuckin
g huge and no one is real big on boundaries. But don’t worry you’re not alone, every kid that’s stayed in this house has been victim to a family and club party. Now do you go by Valentine or…” he trails off.

  “Just Valentine,” I growl, my voice harder than I actually intended it to be, but really, what the fuck is this kid trying to do here?

  “That’s cool,” Zeke says, brushing off my asshole tone. “Auntie B put you in the biggest room up on the third floor. It’s private and far enough away from the little kids that they won’t drive you crazy.”

  Fuck, there are more kids here. Trisha probably already told me that, but I stopped listening to her about five minutes into the car ride over here. “How many other kids are here?” I ask, already assuming that the only reason they took me is to play unpaid fucking nanny to however many snot-nosed little bastards they’ve got.

  “Just you, Sabrina who is ten, and Callum who is eight,” the girl says.

  My eyes swing from her brother to her. It’s the first time she’s spoken and her voice is soft and slightly raspy, almost as fucking sexy as she is. I narrow my eyes and keep my lips in a hard line. I won’t allow myself to be taken in by her. I’m not going to become a fucking pussy over pussy. This girl is making alarms burst to life at every turn. Nu-huh, nope, I need to stay the hell away from her.

  “What school were you at before?” Zeke asks, and I’m grateful to have something to distract me from the girl.