Reborn To Reign: Choosing The Monster Over The Prince
The bullet tore through my chest, ending my life as the perfect mafia princess.
My fiancé, Connor Walls, watched me bleed out on the cold tile floor while he calmly cleaned his gun.
Standing beside him was my cousin Jana, the girl I trusted with my life, looking at him with adoration as I took my last breath.
I died realizing that the "Golden Prince" of the Chicago Outfit was actually a monster who had beaten me behind closed doors for years.
And the man I had been terrified of—his brother Brannon, the "Butcher"—was the only one who had ever truly protected me.
I died full of regret, hatred, and the metallic taste of blood.
But then, I gasped, my body jolting upright on a blue gym mat.
My skin was smooth. My heart was beating.
Connor stood above me, young and arrogant, offering me a hand.
I was twenty-one again.
The beatings, the betrayal, the murder—none of it had happened yet.
Connor smiled, thinking I was still the naive girl he planned to break and discard.
He thought I would walk into the Rite of Choice tonight and obediently become his property.
He was wrong.
That night, under the crystal chandeliers, the Don asked me to pledge myself to the heir.
The entire room held its breath, waiting for the rehearsed "I do."
I looked at Connor, then turned my gaze to the terrifying shadow in the corner.
"The debt requires a union with the Walls bloodline," I said, my voice steel. "It does not specify the heir."
I pointed at the monster everyone feared.
"I choose Brannon Walls."
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Chapter 4
Abby Talley POV
The temperature in the ballroom didn't just drop; it plummeted, sucking the oxygen right out of the air.
Brannon stopped three feet away from us. He stood like a monolith of silence in a room fracturing with noise. He dwarfed Connor, making the "Golden Prince" look less like royalty and more like a petulant child caught playing with matches.
Brannon didn't speak immediately. His dark eyes swept over the broken glass on the floor before shifting to Jana, who had stopped crying and was now staring at him with wide, terrified eyes.
Then, he looked at me.
His gaze was heavy, physical. It felt like a touch. When he reached out, his knuckles grazed the line of my jaw, his touch a shocking, paradoxical gentleness against my stinging skin. His jaw muscle feathered—a tiny tic that betrayed a tectonic rage shifting beneath his stoic mask.
"Who did this?"
His voice was a deep rumble, vibrating through the floorboards. It was a demand for truth, heavy with unspoken consequences.
Connor stepped between us, puffing out his chest in a vain attempt to reclaim his territory.
"Back off, Brannon," Connor said, though his voice lacked its usual confidence, cracking slightly at the edges. "This is a domestic dispute. It doesn't concern the Enforcer."
Brannon didn't even blink. He didn't deign to look at his brother. He kept his eyes locked on me.
"Abby," Brannon said. "Who?"
I saw the flicker of uncertainty in Connor's eyes. He knew Brannon. He knew that Brannon lived by a code that the rest of them had forgotten. He had a line, and he never allowed it to be crossed.
"She fell," Connor lied quickly, the words tumbling out too fast. "She's clumsy. Aren't you, Abby?"
He reached for my hand, a silent threat digging into my skin. "Tell him."
I looked at Connor's hand on my wrist. Then I looked at Brannon.
For years, I thought Brannon was the monster because he was covered in blood. I never realized the blood wasn't his—it was the blood of the men who threatened the Family. He wasn't the wolf; he was the wall that kept the wolves out.
I ripped my hand away from Connor.
"He hit me," I said.
The truth hung in the air, sharp and undeniable.
Connor's face went red. "You lying—"
Brannon moved.
It was a subtle shift, just a step forward, but it forced Connor to scramble back as if burned. Brannon placed himself between me and Connor, his presence an unbreachable shield.
"The Rite has begun," the Herald announced from the stage, his voice trembling slightly. "Bring forward the bride."
The timing broke the tension, but only just.
Brannon turned his back on Connor, dismissing him completely. He looked down at me. Up close, he smelled of rain and sandalwood, not the metallic scent of violence I expected.
"Are you sure?" Brannon asked quietly.
He wasn't asking if I was sure about the accusation. He was asking if I was sure about what I was about to do. He knew. Somehow, he knew I wasn't going to walk up to that dais and pledge myself to Connor.
"I'm sure," I whispered.
"Then walk," he said. "I'm right behind you."
I walked past Connor, who was fuming, held back by two of his own soldiers who sensed the volatility of the situation. I walked toward the Don.
But I didn't stop at the designated mark for Connor's fiancée.
I kept walking until I stood in the center of the room. I turned to face the crowd. Then, I shifted my gaze past them, locking eyes with the monster standing guard in the shadows—the man who had just become my only hope.