by Meghan March
The Fall of Legend
Meghan March
Contents
The Fall of Legend
Also by Meghan March
About The Fall of Legend
1. Scarlett
2. Legend
3. Scarlett
4. Legend
5. Scarlett
6. Legend
7. Scarlett
8. Legend
9. Scarlett
10. Legend
11. Scarlett
12. Scarlett
13. Legend
14. Scarlett
15. Scarlett
16. Legend
17. Scarlett
18. Scarlett
19. Scarlett
20. Scarlett
21. Legend
22. Scarlett
23. Legend
24. Scarlett
25. Legend
26. Scarlett
27. Legend
28. Scarlett
29. Legend
30. Scarlett
31. Legend
32. Scarlett
33. Legend
34. Scarlett
35. Legend
36. Scarlett
37. Legend
38. Scarlett
39. Legend
40. Scarlett
41. Legend
42. Scarlett
43. Legend
44. Scarlett
45. Legend
46. Scarlett
47. Legend
48. Scarlett
49. Legend
50. Scarlett
51. Scarlett
52. Legend
53. Scarlett
54. Legend
55. Scarlett
56. Legend
57. Scarlett
Sneak Peek of House of Scarlett
Sneak Peek of Dirty Billionaire
Also by Meghan March
About the Author
The Fall of Legend
Book One of the Legend Trilogy
* * *
Meghan March
Copyright © 2019 by Meghan March LLC
All rights reserved.
* * *
Editor: Pam Berehulke, Bulletproof Editing,
www.bulletproofediting.com
Cover photo and design: © Regina Wamba, Mae I Design,
www.exclusivebookstock.com
* * *
No part of this book may be reproduced or transmitted in any form or by any means, electronic or mechanical, including photocopying, recording, or by any information storage and retrieval system without the written permission of the author, except for the use of brief quotations in a review.
This book is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents are either products of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, events, or locales is entirely coincidental. 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.
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Visit my website at www.meghanmarch.com.
Also by Meghan March
Magnolia Duet
Creole Kingpin
(March 2020)
Madam Temptress
(April 2020)
* * *
Legend Trilogy
The Fall of Legend
House of Scarlett
(December 2019)
The Fight for Forever
(January 2020)
* * *
Dirty Mafia Duet:
Black Sheep
White Knight
* * *
Forge Trilogy:
Deal with the Devil
Luck of the Devil
Heart of the Devil
* * *
Sin Trilogy:
Richer Than Sin
Guilty as Sin
Reveling in Sin
* * *
Mount Trilogy:
Ruthless King
Defiant Queen
Sinful Empire
* * *
Savage Trilogy:
Savage Prince
Iron Princess
Rogue Royalty
Beneath Series:
Beneath This Mask
Beneath This Ink
Beneath These Chains
Beneath These Scars
Beneath These Lies
Beneath These Shadows
Beneath The Truth
* * *
Dirty Billionaire Trilogy:
Dirty Billionaire
Dirty Pleasures
Dirty Together
* * *
Dirty Girl Duet:
Dirty Girl
Dirty Love
* * *
Real Duet:
Real Good Man
Real Good Love
* * *
Real Dirty Duet:
Real Dirty
Real Sexy
* * *
Flash Bang Series:
Flash Bang
Hard Charger
* * *
Standalones:
Take Me Back
Bad Judgment
About The Fall of Legend
We come from two different worlds.
I’m from the streets. She may as well live in an ivory tower.
I made my living with my fists. I doubt she could even throw a punch.
Our paths never should have crossed. We never should have met.
That doesn’t change the facts.
I would sell my soul to taste those red lips.
Fight the devil himself to hear her laugh.
Burn in hell to have a single night.
Scarlett Priest shouldn’t even know men like me exist, but sometimes temptation is stronger than will.
If this is how I go down, it’ll be worth every second of the fall.
The Fall of Legend is the first book in the captivating and utterly addictive Legend Trilogy.
One
Scarlett
My body hits the floor with a thump. When my eyes flick open, darkness greets me.
What the hell?
Wait. No. There’s some gray mixed with the pitch black. Maybe even a glow coming from above my head?
Did I fall asleep? Roll off my bed?
I try to sit up, but I can’t move. Why can’t I move? Fear creeps down my spine because I’m 99.99% sure I didn’t fall asleep. I don’t take naps. I don’t have time.
Plus, if I’d been taking a nap, the sound of the Proclaimers’ “500 Miles” wouldn’t be blasting in my earbuds.
Wait. I was running. Not napping. So, why the hell can’t I move? I wiggle, but something that feels like carpet nap rubs against my bare arms.
What in the actual fuck is going on?
The Proclaimers go quiet for a moment before the song starts again. In that precious beat of silence, puzzle pieces snap together, and the blood chugging through my body slows like icy water in a nearly frozen river.
Oh. No. No. Just . . . no. This isn’t happening. The threats weren’t real. They didn’t get me. Even as I try to deny it, my inner voice pops into my head, contradicting everything I want to believe.
They got me. The threats were real. They’re going to kill me. I should have listened to Ryan and Christine. Why didn’t I listen?
That’s right, because I never take stuff like that seriously. And now . . . I flex my hands with my heart thundering, and my fingertips brush against what feels like . . . a rug?
My stomach plummets as reality crashes through my confusion.
I’m rolled up in a rug. Oh. My. Fucking. God.
This can’t be happening.
As the Proclaimers wail in my ears, vibrations shiver across my skin. What was that? A door shutting? Are those footsteps?
The murmur of voices comes next. I try to listen, but I can’t make out the words over the music, until . . .
Something knocks into my side, and thankfully, the rug blunts the impact. Did someone just freaking kick me?
I’m a smart woman. Savvy. I’ve lived in Manhattan my whole life and survived three mugging attempts. I’m not a shrinking violet, but neither of the two women’s self-defense seminars I’ve attended for charity covered what to do when you wake up rolled in a rug after being kidnapped by someone who has probably made repeated death threats against you.
The song’s volume dips for some more chanting about all the things the Proclaimers would do for the woman they loved, and that’s when I hear the roar.
“You did what?” a man bellows loud enough to suck the breath out of my lungs. He sounds furious—and powerful.
Fear unleashes a cold sweat over my skin.
“You said she could fix it!” Another voice, this one higher pitched, breaks through the Proclaimers’ voices before the song picks up intensity again, drowning them out.
Who said I could fix something? Fix what? Where? My brain races, but it’s more sluggish than normal, given the fact it’s weighted down with a billion tons of dread and the urge to shrink and run.
More murmuring. More confusion rioting in my head.
Fix what? For whom? Does this mean they’re not going to kill me? Because I would really like not to be killed today. Or tomorrow. Or really ever.
Then I start rolling. Literally. Like a rock thumping over on its side when kicked.
Oh my God. Oh my God. Oh my God!
Think! Think!
My body tumbles until I’m discombobulated and the earbuds fall from my ears. Bright light blinds me as I’m freed from the rug and land on my back, staring up at the ceiling.
The scents of leather and carpet cleaner hit my nostrils as I bolt to my feet, tilting to one side like I’ve had too much to drink. I spin around, searching for an exit, but a big hand lands on the bare skin of my shoulder.
His palm is hot, like it was just yanked from a pocket or clenched in a fist. His touch sends tingles racing down to my fingertips.
Whoa. That’s never happened before.
I jerk away, stumbling forward to catch myself on the arm of a leather chair. “Please don’t kill me. Whatever you need me to fix, I’ll fix it.”
My head bowed, I say the words to the ripped-jean-covered legs of a man standing a few feet from me, even though I have no idea when I decided trying to reason with him was a good idea. With self-preservation running the show right now, all bets are off on me behaving rationally.
I brace for a blow or some form of verbal assault, but none comes. Other than the faint sound of the Proclaimers drifting up from my earbuds on the floor, a heavy silence blankets the room.
I wait for the man in the ripped jeans to move. To come toward me. To kill me. But he doesn’t.
“Fuck.” It comes out softly, like he’s speaking under his breath and doesn’t mean for me to hear it.
“Please,” I whisper, finally finding the courage to look up at the rest of the body connected to the pair of massive denim-clad legs. “Please don’t hurt—”
My voice goes silent as I stare into the bluest eyes I’ve ever seen. He could make a fortune off those eyes alone. Mostly because they’re set in a ridiculously attractive face that shouldn’t be attractive at all due to a slight crook in the nose and the faint white line of a scar stretching across one of his sharp cheekbones. Shaggy dark blond hair hangs in his face as his lips press into a harsh line.
This beast, albeit a gorgeous one, is going to kill me.
The voice in my head delivers the final verdict, a conclusion it reached because somehow, to the bottom of my soul, I know this man isn’t afraid to cause another person pain. Raw, savage energy flows off his body in waves, and my teeth threaten to chatter at its intensity.
Beautiful and brutal. That’s what I’d caption the shot I’m mentally taking right now of the last face I may ever see.
This is it. I should have listened. But I didn’t. This is all my own damned fault.
I bite down on my quivering lip and straighten my shoulders as tears well in my eyes, tears I won’t allow to fall.
Not yet.
First, I’m going to bargain with the grim reaper.
Two
Legend
I’m going to kill him. After everything I’ve done for him, I’m going to fucking kill him.
I was already rocking on the edge of ruin, but that was nothing compared to this. There’s no way out.
I always thought if I ended up in prison like they said I would, it would be for one of the crimes I committed. But, no. It’ll be twenty-five to life because Bump kidnapped NYC Magazine’s Most Influential Woman Under Forty—and she’s only thirty-one.
Jesus fucking Christ. Fuck. My. Life.
Scarlett Priest—a blond image of untouchable class—stands in my office at Legend, my new club that’s already circling the drain. She stares me down, even as she trembles with fear of what she must assume is her impending death. Because what the hell is the woman supposed to think after someone fucking kidnapped her?
Rage burns through my veins, and Bump takes a step toward the door, like he’s about to run for cover. At least he’s smart enough to know that he fucked up even worse than he ever has before. If Bump were anyone else, his head would be on the chopping block.
Now what the fuck do I do? Damage control. If that’s even possible.
“Whatever you need me to fix, I’ll fix it,” she says again. Her voice shakes, but the words come out clear. “Please, just don’t kill me.”
What’s going through her mind? I have no clue why she’s offering to fix whatever I need her to fix . . . except she must have heard Bump.
“What did you hear?” I ask.
Her head jerks back as if the very sound of my voice is offensive to her. I can’t even find it in me to be insulted. She should be screaming and threatening us with the cops, prison, the FBI, and her family’s money.
Her teeth leave little marks in her lower lip as she releases it from their grip. Her throat works as she swallows, and I can’t help but wonder why I’m hyperaware of her every fucking movement.
Probably because I’ll be thinking about her every goddamned day as I lie in my prison bunk, wishing for freedom and the life I promised myself we’d have. A big life. The life that . . .
I shut down that line of thought as Scarlett Priest opens her mouth to speak.
“I didn’t hear anything else. Just the Proclaimers singing about walking five thousand miles.”
Now that she’s said something, I can hear the faint cadence of the song “500 Miles” coming from the white earbuds on the marble floor.
I make a split-second decision, the kind that has saved mine and Bump’s lives more than once. I only have two ways to play this, and since both involve prison time if they go wrong, I may as well try to get something out of it.
“Are you as good as they say you are?” I ask her as I reach toward my desk and grab the copy of NYC Magazine, the one that started this nightmare, and hold it out to her.
Her chin dips, and she stills when she sees the glossy photo of herself on the cover. It’s been photoshopped, but the real Scarlett is even better, in my opinion. Not that my opinion matters right now.
After a beat, her gray eyes lift to connect with mine once more.
“I’m better.” Her voice comes out in a ragged whisper, but there’s a thread of steely confidence running through it. She licks her rosy lips and adds, “Especially if it keeps me alive.”
The princess from the ivory tower can think on her feet. Good to know.
“Do you know where you are or who I am?”
She breaks eye contact to look around my offi
ce, snapping her gaze back to mine when she catches sight of Bump off to her left.
“No and no. Also, for the record, I’m capable of forgetting anything you need me to forget right now. I might as well have a degree in discretion.”
Her self-preservation instincts outweigh her fear. I can work with that.
“It’s your lucky day, Scarlett. I’m giving you the chance to save yourself.” Silently, I add, And me.
Three
Scarlett
Save myself?