Chained: Las Vegas Bastards
Author
Sarah N. Fox
Reads
16.7K
Chapters
84
She swore she left the darkness behind—new name, new life, clean slate. But Vegas doesn’t forgive or forget. The city’s kings—five ruthless brothers who own every inch of its glittering chaos—just claimed her as theirs. They want answers. Control. Maybe even her surrender. Each look sparks fury, each touch blurs the line between danger and desire. She’s fought monsters before, but this time the battlefield is her own heartbeat. Because surviving the devil once was hard enough… surviving five who make her burn might be impossible.
Chapter 1
ANASTASIA
Las Vegas rewards monsters. Tonight, I caged one.
Neon burned across the Strip, a feverish constellation of lies and longing. The city shimmered under the weight of heat and hunger, alive long past midnight and thriving on vice it no longer bothered to disguise.
Here, sin was currency, power was spectacle, and justice was a dream.
But not tonight. Tonight, I’d made it a reality.
The brothel king, a predator who had hidden in plain sight while the system failed girl after girl, was now sitting in a holding cell, his empire cracked wide open and his secrets bleeding into evidence bags.
Two years of my life had gone into bringing him down. Two years of digging through sealed files, chasing ghosts no one wanted disturbed, and coaxing testimonies from women who had learned the cost of speaking out.
Everyone said it was impossible. But I found a way. I always do.
Adrenaline still hummed through my veins as I drove home, the echo of victory thrumming beneath my skin. This was the kind of win that built careers and earned headlines. The kind that might make me a real contender for chief prosecutor.
The media had already crowned me the city’s new hero. Headlines with my name on them were everywhere.
HOPELESS CASE TURNED VICTORY
ANASTASIA QUINN TOPPLES CRIME RING
They made it sound effortless. It wasn’t.
But more than that, this was the kind of victory that pulled girls out of the dark and tried to give them their lives back.
My assistant would handle the aftermath for the victims: temporary housing, trauma care, and job placements. It wasn’t justice, not really, but it was a beginning.
I parked outside my apartment building, the same one I had lived in for years, long before the raises and accolades.
I could afford something better now. Something shinier. But I liked this place. Close to the university. Quiet. Ordinary. The air smelled like coffee grounds and old books instead of perfume and desperation.
Normal was a comfort. A shield.
I climbed the stairs, every step a reminder of how long the night had been. My heels ached, exhaustion pulling me under at last. All I wanted was a glass of wine, a captivating book, and a long, scalding shower. Maybe to sleep without dreaming of courtrooms and frightened eyes.
I slid my key into the lock, twisting it and opening the door. The moment I stepped inside, my instincts flared. I froze, every muscle locking into place. The darkness that greeted me felt heavy and wrong.
I flicked the switch. Nothing. No glow from the hallway light. No familiar hum, no welcoming glow. Just stillness that pressed in from all sides, coiled and waiting.
I hit it again. Click. Nothing.
My pulse spiked. Slow breaths. Controlled.
I reached into my bag and wrapped my fingers around the grip of my Glock, the familiar weight grounding me. Safety off. Muzzle low. Careful steps.
Then I saw him.
He stood by the window, his figure carved from moonlight and shadow. Tall. Six-two, maybe. Lean muscle shifting beneath a dark shirt, every line of him precision and restraint.
When he turned, the sharp lines of his jaw caught the light. His eyes were dark. Unreadable. Calm in a way that scraped along my nerves.
He didn’t move. Didn’t speak. He simply watched me, utterly at ease, like a predator unbothered by the presence of prey.
“Wrong apartment,” I said, lifting my gun. “If you’re here to scare me, you picked the wrong woman. What do you want?”
He didn’t flinch. When he spoke, his voice slid through the darkness, smooth and low, like smoke over silk. The kind of voice meant to tempt, not threaten.
“To end your current life.”
A sharp, humorless laugh escaped me. “I’m very happy with my life,” I said, my voice steady and cold. “Leave. Now.”
There was power in his gaze. Measured. Controlled. Unmistakably deliberate. Yet beneath the surface, something flickered. Something that didn’t belong on the face of a man who had come uninvited into my home.
Curiosity. Regret. Recognition.
“To end your current life,” he said again, slower this time. “Anastasia Devlin.”
Devlin.
The world tilted as the name slammed into my chest, knocking the breath from my lungs.
Anastasia Devlin was dead, buried, and forgotten. I had erased that life piece by piece, scrubbed it from every record and sealed it beneath layers of new names and carefully constructed silence.
My grip tightened on the gun, fingers numb and my pulse roaring in my ears. For a split second, I forgot how to breathe, forgot where I was. All I could hear was that name echoing in my skull, dragged from a grave I had dug myself.
Who is this man? And how did he find out?
A shift of air brushed my left side, wrong in a way I couldn’t immediately name. My stomach dropped.
Another man stepped out of the shadows of my kitchen. He was taller than the first. Six-four, maybe more. His broad shoulders filled the doorway, power coiling beneath his stillness.
I hadn’t heard him, hadn’t even sensed him. Years of training screamed that I should have. And still he moved through my blind spot like he’d always belonged there.
The light caught his eyes, cool and assessing. The kind of gaze that cataloged weaknesses and never looked away.
Before I could fire, he lunged.
He moved like smoke, silent and fast. One second I had my gun. The next it was gone.
My arm was twisted behind my back until pain lanced through my shoulder. I kicked, lashed out with elbows and nails, but it was like trying to bend steel.
The man grabbed my ponytail and yanked, forcing my head back so hard the world exploded into stars.
“Blake,” the man restraining me said calmly, almost amused. “You said she would come willingly.”
“I didn’t know she was such a shrew, Ty,” the one called Blake replied, a hint of dark humor threading through his voice.
Rage flared through me, hot and reckless.
The man from the window moved, deliberate and unhurried as he closed in. “Give her Finn’s gift,” he said calmly. “Before she wakes the entire building.”
A sharp sting bit into my arm.
No.
I bucked, twisted, and fought with everything I had. Breath tore from my lungs as ruthless hands crushed my wrists, pinning me with terrifying efficiency.
Fire raced through my veins, searing and cold all at once. The drug hit fast, my knees buckling as the floor lurched.
Blake caught me his grip steady. His face hovered above mine, those dark eyes unreadable as my heartbeat slowed, heavy and distant like it belonged to someone else.
I blinked as my vision fractured, splinters of color bleeding into the shadows, and their voices stretched into echoes.
Then the world went dark.
