Lost Paradise (The Savages of the Blue Lagoon)

1. Chapter 1

Chapter 1

As the pulsing music and raucous laughter echo through the house, I can't help but feel a profound sense of disillusionment wash over me. These parties, these people—they’re all the same.

Predictable, shallow, and utterly boring.

I glance around the room, taking in the sea of privileged faces lost in their own self-indulgence. They are going to be an easy market for this sideline business. But at what cost? Hustling gear to these entitled brats feels like a soul-sucking endeavor, a reminder of just how far I'd strayed from who I used to be.

“Hey, mate, good party.”

My gaze turns briefly to the geezer breezing past me, his arm around some bird who’s probably on molly. My shit is top quality, and these suckers will come back willing to pay the pretty penny for it too.

My father was a genius setting me up here at this exclusive Scottish college, but I’ll be damned if he thinks I’ll be peddling his gear like one of his bottom-feeder lackeys. I’ll be running Hawthornes Valor Institute in no time. Next stop…I’ll be sweeping London from under his fat Greek feet. Bastard’s placed my bruv to groom as his successor. I’ll be damned if I let that happen.

I've come to understand that I don't belong in this normalized, stagnant, and conventional society. I was destined to dominate it. For me, control is as vital as air, not just a desire but an imperative. One day, I will ascend to rule as lord of my dominion.

My eyes slowly travel over to the kitchen area, homing in on the blonde beauty standing next to those three royal witches. I personally don’t know them, but their faces are instantly recognizable. We come from different worlds that sometimes might cross paths on exclusive playgrounds where a taste for the finer things in life has no bounds for the privileged wealth.

Except I’m not privileged nor part of their spoilt brat pack. I come from the dark end of the East London underworld, where currency is exchanged in blood and shady favors. In my world, status isn't measured by the size of your yacht or the brand of your champagne but by the darkness of one's deeds and the depth of one’s connections in the shadows.

These three stem from the royal elite. Chelsea girls who live in some of London’s most exclusive postcodes. They’re nothing but a bunch of affluent, spoiled, entitled brats living the high life. Their reality is totally detached from the suburban ugliness and the working week. While they flaunt their wealth in St. Tropez on daddy’s yacht on weekends, I navigate the murky waters of London’s prestigious underworld, where survival means getting your hands dirty, and loyalty is bought with more than just money.

I huff a laugh at how pompous and ridiculous most of them are here, but that light blonde American bird standing next to them isn’t one of them. I remember watching her this morning get out of the car by the docks and look up to her bodyguard like he was her actual father. Like me, she doesn’t want to be here, and for one reason or another, she’s forced to attend this college.

But I take a moment to appreciate her physical image. She definitely stands out amidst the crowds with an effortless grace that almost leaves me breathless. Her bright golden locks cascade around her shoulders like a halo, framing a face so angelic it seems almost unreal. And those eyes—bright and blue, sparkling with a warmth that draws me in like a moth to a flame. The curves of her body, hugged by that tight black dress, demand my entire attention.

Evelyn Winters.

I already looked her up. She goes by Eve on her online socials. Daughter of some highly successful Manhattan plutocrat. She could be an American princess by birthright, but something tells me she’d rather be Queen.

She’s a dangerous one to reckon with. Under all that beauty lies a calculating mind poised to seize power at any cost.

A rare kind of female who initially seduces with her vision of a beautiful, liberated woman, but her vision is impaired by her self-absorbed destruction, and her aftertaste is sour. As a newbie at the college, she’s merged well with the three witches, but she wants the crown from the reigning witch, and I bet she’ll get it.

Eve Winters plays dirty, and judging by her IG profile, she’s domineering, manipulative, and loyal. She has it all, yet will always want more; an obsessive overachiever with a shaky moral fiber, and she'll go to great lengths to get what she wants. She feels an enormous pressure to be perfect, and her need to be on top of the social pyramid pretty much says it all about her.

She’s exactly my kind of woman, and I’d love to corrupt her even more and bring out that ruthlessness that’s just itching to emerge from her core.

The American athlete hasn’t left her side, as if he thinks he has a chance. He isn’t even in her league. Eve’s not impressed by athletic geeks who prance around in hoodies and jeans. The wanker should have looked up her IG account and checked out the kind of Manhattan crowds she runs in. She’s the Princess of the Upper East Side, while he should stick to his farmland in Nowhereville , middle America.

My eyes travel from that crowd to the geezer with the dark-rimmed glasses, standing a few steps away from them. Both he and the athlete arrived together earlier this evening. Probably, the athlete needed some wingman and strung the nerd along. Except he’s been staring at them with this sour, disapproving face all night. Looks like a right downer. If I thought the athlete was a bit of a chav, this fella just added a couple of notches to the status. He’s standing there with his hands in his pockets, looking as if he’s about to blow a tantrum, and I can’t have that kind of drama here.

There is no fucking way he’ll be the cause of this party ending early, so I saunter over to the fella.

“Alright, mate?” I slide over to him, catching his attention.

Anticipating the sour look he’ll give me, I rest my hand on his shoulder and grip it hard, causing him to glance over fast. But he’s more irritated by my move than feel threatened.

Hmmm…something interesting to file for later.

“Sure, almost everyone here is off their face. I’m sure your business must be swelling with all the massive pockets you’re getting ready to dip your filthy hands in.”

This little know-it-all shite is one step to finding himself in a black body bag. I release the grip on him and pass my hand through my hair .

“Don’t know what you’re on about, mate. But I could do with some help in changing the gas pump that’s fitted to the keg. Mind coming down to the basement and holding out my mobile light while I change it?”

I look at him innocently and watch his angry face change to a more neutral one.

“Sure,” the bloody fool replies, and we both make a move towards the staircase. “I heard someone earlier talk about the beer being flat.”

There’s nothing wrong with the draught beer I’ve been supplying at this party, but I’ll let the wanker talk.

In fact, the keg isn’t even in the basement.

“Ah, mate, I forgot my mobile,” I say, opening the door under the main staircase and switching on the light. “You head on down, and I’ll quickly catch up.”

The gullible bastard takes my word for it and proceeds down the steps.

“Wait,” he says halfway down, “there’s a light here. Why do you need your mobile?”

I shut the door and bolt it. Hopefully, I’ll remember to let the fella out after the last person leaves tonight. I can only imagine him banging and screaming, but the music is way too loud for anyone to notice anything.

My gaze travels to the gardening-kid-turned-lackey who’s just come inside and gives me a brief nod. He’ll be helping shift the gear he smuggled onto the campus for me. Most of the stuff here at the party are simply tasters of the good stuff, and he’s busy tallying up potential punters to line up for later.

I make my way to the living room, and everyone here is high on something as they dance away without a fucking care in their honeyed, rose-tinted world. Feeling a wave of disdain as I take in the scene, a scowl works its way onto my face.

A couple of these rich fucks come up to congratulate me for an awesome party, and I hardly pay any attention to them.

Usual shite.

I’ve done this scene one too many times, and as much as I’d love to tell my old man to fuck off, I don’t need him sending one of his thugs to sort me out. My fingers trace the thick scar on the back of my neck; it's healed now and covered in ink, but it’s there to serve as a reminder of what my father does to slackers and backstabbers, including his own flesh and blood.

They say Greek mythology is just some made-up shite, but there has to be a grain of truth to be inspired to write these tragedies. My family is living proof of this divine power struggle.

With a heavy sigh, I excuse myself from the crowd, slipping away unnoticed to the solitude of the bathroom. Alone in the dimly lit room, I lock the door behind me and stare at my reflection in the mirror.

Is this really the life I want? The silent question echoes in the silence of the room.

Is this who I've become? Some party drug pusher catering to posh tiffs, toffs, and other toffs from fancy postcodes such as SW3?

For a long moment, I allow myself to confront the truth, peel back the layers of denial, and face the reality of my situation.

“Do you fucking mind getting the fuck out of here?”

I whip my head around to the unexpected voice coming from the toilet cubicle and see the blonde American beauty sitting on it.

Well, hey, hey…. this is an unexpected turn of events.

“Yeah, actually, I do mind. Finish up, luv, and don’t forget to wipe.”

She scrunches up her nose in disgust and stands up from the closed toilet seat.

“Fuck you, asshole.” She strolls over and slides in front of me to wash her hands.

“I love this position you’re suggesting, but I don’t do desperate rich bitches.”

Those cold blue eyes look up at me in the mirror.

“I’m not interested in low-life criminals,”

“Whoa, that’s reaching below the belt. You don’t even know me.”

“I don’t want to know you.”

“You’re at my house, at my party.”

She reaches over to grab a hand towel, and I take the opportunity to box her in.

“Why are you washing your hands? You didn’t even use the toilet.”

“Why do you even care what I do?”

I shrug my shoulders, “Curiosity.”

“Curiosity killed the cat; don’t snoop into other people’s business. ”

“Now I’m going to snoop into why you left your mates and sitting up here all by yourself. Missing something in your life? The athletic giant stuck to your side like glue, doing nothing for you?”

I move even closer, my face barely brushing against her hair, and her scent is intoxicatingly addictive.

She smells fucking radiant.

“I bet you prefer big, fat dicks,” I whisper, my voice low and deep. “Ones that can stretch your walls and make you scream from the pain.” I nuzzle my face within her hair and find her ear.

“I tick off all those needs, Princess. All you have to do is ask,” I’m so close, I could bite her ear and savor her taste.

She remains still, just staring at our reflection in the mirror, and I know she’s momentarily absorbing everything I’ve just offered her. Fuck, her scent is flippin’ phenomenal. I need to have her before the athlete does; it’s a craving that digs deep inside me, and I will not be satisfied until I get what I need to placate it. I might sell gear, but I’m not a user; nonetheless, I need my fix from this woman.

“Fuck you, Astro. I don’t associate myself with lowlife felons.” She comes to it and moves her hip to shove me back, but I remain exactly where I am and move my head away from her, laughing.

“You want me, girl. I can smell your pheromones.”

“The only thing you’re going to smell is my fist up your fucking nose if you don’t get the fuck off me,” she scowls.

Fuck me, she’s rough. A girl after my own heart.

“I bet you’ve never hit a person in your whole life,” I tease, seizing her hips and twirling her around to meet my gaze. Leaning in, I devour every inch of her face with my eyes, searching for the telltale signs etched across her features. “You haven’t screamed because you’re not afraid of me. Sure, I might have a few skeletons in my closet, but you're not trembling at the thought of being with a man like me. You crave me as much as I crave you.”

“I’m not…” her words die fast on my lips. She attempts to push me, and I grab hold of her wrists, pressing my body against hers until she meets the edge of the sink to keep her still. I force her mouth open and push my tongue through.

Her body quivers against me, my cock so hard, I feel like I’m about to explode from this kiss alone. She tastes like the sweetness of life, suddenly making me feel so fucking alive.

Electricity runs through both of us, and she moans a breathy little sound that goes straight to my knob. She struggles against her own craving, but I refuse to let her go. I force my tongue deeper, dominating her mouth, marking her lips, and taking what I want.

She leans hard into me, her lips moving over mine, challenging me. Her denial and my lust mingle with our breaths, creating something explosive between us. My hand moves north and grips the back of her head. I drag her closer. She gasps and pushes closer, loving this even as she fights me. Her tongue battles against mine, and my hand tangles in her silky blonde hair.

I can’t get enough of her. She’s fucking addictive. My other hand grips her waist in a tight hold. I need more, and I know she’s willing to fight me and give everything to me.

My knob’s about to burst through my trousers, and I know she feels me with the way she’s pushed herself up against me. I don’t need the sink to stop her from leaving because she isn’t going anywhere. She’s into this as much as I am.

This moment is abruptly shattered by the thunderous crash of the bathroom door being kicked open, and instinctively, I shove the girl protectively behind me. The room floods with blinding light as campus feds storm in, their voices commanding us to stay put.

My eyes widen in shock, and I sense the girl behind me scrambling to compose herself, her heart pounding against her ribcage. A surge of defensiveness washes over me, compelling me to shield this vulnerable creature from whatever threat looms before us.

“What the fuck is the meaning of this?” I demand, my anger boiling over as I stand tall.

Two men come forward, forcefully pulling me away from her. Every fiber of my being screams to resist, but I know it would be futile.

I steal a glance at Eve. Despite the chaos unfolding around us, she doesn't wear the look of a frantic, scared woman; instead, there's a stoic resolve in her expression, tinged with a hint of annoyance. There’s something about her. She has more spunk than she lets up behind that innocent, angelic demeanor she puts up in public.

I was right all along about her. She's just as wild and unpredictable as I am, but she cloaks herself in the facade of societal norms and expectations. Behind the veneer of sophistication and social status lies a woman unafraid to embrace the chaos within.

As I’m cuffed and pulled away, the need to know more about her persists. “This isn’t over,” I warn her just as I’m shoved out of the bathroom.