AN: Hi, everyone! I recently just started watching The Royals and for the first time in almost two years, I had the inspiration to write. I rode the wave of motivation and this is part one of what I came up with. It's the beginning of Jasper and Eleanor's story, starting with a little bit of insight to Jasper's past. I hope you enjoy reading this as much as I've enjoyed writing it, and I can't wait to share the next part of this story with you. If you would like to chat about anything related to The Royals or Jaspenor, you can find me on twitter and tumblr at epitomeofdelena and if you have a moment, please leave a review and let me know what you think. Happy reading!

Part One: Thunder

I never had a family—not really.

I grew up in a household with two addicts as parents. You name their vice: sex, drugs, booze, gambling—they did it all, and they did it often. For the first sixteen years of my life, it was all I knew, all that surrounded me. I can't remember a day that substance abuse didn't taint their very existence. The only good part I can ever remember was my brother, Jaxon.

For the longest time, it felt like Jaxon was the only other person in the entire world that could possibly understand what I was going through: the constant loneliness that came from my parents ignoring us, only paying attention when it suited them. The never-ending fear that wracked my body every time their coked-out drug dealer busted his way into our tiny, one-bedroom apartment, demanding money I know for a fact we didn't have. The pain that came with Jaxon's skin turning black and blue from bruises I know in my heart neither of us deserved.

It was always the two of us against the world.

Until one day, it wasn't.

Jaxon left me behind for the first and last time when he was fourteen years old, and he never looked back. I was only ten at the time, but still, I can remember the night he left so clearly. Sometimes, it still feels like it just happened yesterday. I guess some wounds never heal.

It was close to midnight on a hot, summer night in July. My parents were asleep in our undersized living room after another day of too much indulgence and little of nothing else. The stench of cigarette smoke hung thick in the air as I quietly padded down the narrow hallway, the door to our shared bedroom cracked open just enough so I could peek inside and I swear, it looked like a tornado had just torn through the small space.

I suppose that was fitting since it felt like my life had always been a storm.

The broken drawers on our weathered dresser hung askew, and I could see that what little clothing we owned was poured out onto the ugly green carpet that covered the floor of the apartment. Jaxon's back was to me, his thin arms quickly but quietly stuffing things into his favorite backpack. I could still see the musical note patch I'd given him on his thirteenth birthday sewn into the fabric. It was lame, but it was from me, and that's how I knew he loved it.

"Jaxon?" I had whispered, my small voice shaking. I remember hating that I sounded every bit as scared as I felt. I stared intently as my big brother, always so strong and brave, slowly turned to face me. I could hear my breath catch in the quietness of the room as he raised his eyes to me—blue, just like my own—and I was stunned to see his face wet with tears. It was the first time I'd ever seen him cry, and it was the very last.

It was in that exact moment that I knew, I knew exactly what he was doing. And what's more than that, I understood why. I was barely ten years old, but as I watched my big brother, my protector, my best friend haul his too-heavy backpack onto his too-thin and shaking shoulders, I understood.

I understood because I had spent more nights than my fifth-grade brain could count, dreaming and imagining that someday, I would do the same thing. One day, I would be big enough and strong enough to leave. To run away and never look back.

And that's exactly what Jaxon was doing.

I took a deep breath. "I don't want you to go," I told him as my chest started to hurt. Please don't leave me, I wanted to beg him as my throat began to clog. Let me come with you. Don't leave me here alone. Who will protect me? Who will I play cards with? Who will make everything better when everything is bad and awful and wrong?

"I know," Jaxon replied, and I watched with rapt attention as another tear fell. I wanted to hug him. I wanted him to hug me. I needed my brother to tell me that everything was going to be okay. "But I can't stay here."

"I know." And I did—I knew, I understood. I understood that if he stayed, our father would just continue to use him as his personal punching bag. He'd continue to show up to school with bruises all over his face and body. He'd continue to spiral into sadness, just like our mother when she cried every morning and every night. Jaxon would never survive if he stayed here another day. I knew this, and I hated every minute of it.

"I'll come back for you," he told me, and I knew he meant it.

I could barely lift my tired head to nod, I was so sad. But I did it, and I did it for him. "Okay," I said, my voice every bit as small as I felt.

For the very last time that I would ever see, he grinned at me. "Okay."

...

When I was sixteen, my father beat me within an inch of my life. It was the first and last time he'd ever put his hands on me.

It was also the day I got out.

For all I know, Jaxon did come back for me.

But I was already gone.

...

I was seventeen when I met Samantha for the very first time. She was new to town, new in school. Within two days of her arrival, Samantha became the girl that all the guys wanted, and all the girls wanted to be. She was like no one I'd ever met before, and she made damn sure I knew it.

Our relationship turned toxic very quickly, the two of us indulging in all the things that Las Vegas had to offer for people like us. We skipped way too much school, drank too much alcohol, smoked too much, gambled too much, and stole things too much. One thing I learned very quickly about Samantha was that there was never any middle ground with her; it was always either too much or not enough, all or nothing.

But everything was so new and exciting with her, exhilarating and addicting. It was like nothing I had ever expected from life, but everything I didn't know I needed and craved at the time. For the first time since Jaxon left, I finally felt like I wasn't alone anymore.

Samantha Valentine was all I had back then, and I'd take whatever I could get from her. And she gave me everything; her addictive mind, her fascinating and mischievous personality, her alluring body. It was all mine for the taking, so I took. And took, and took, and took.

But I wasn't the only one of us that took things. Samantha stole from me too—tiny, little pieces of who I was until one day, I didn't recognize myself anymore. Gone was the scared boy who grew up afraid of what tomorrow would bring. I was now Jasper from Vegas—bigger, better, smarter, stronger. But I was also emptier, and more broken than I ever could have imagined.

And there wasn't a soul on this planet that could change that now.

...

"Come on, baby. You're not still mad at me, are you?" Samantha cooed in a voice that I was very quickly getting sick of. It felt like everything she did lately pissed me off, pushed me a little further away from this comfortable bubble the two of us have been living in, wreaking havoc in, for the past five years.

I was twenty-two years old now, and I was just as lost as I'd ever been.

Very shortly after we met, Samantha and I took our fate into our own hands. We ditched school completely, and pushed the first domino that led to a long chain of depraved events and that's why we were where we are now—living paycheck to paycheck, sleeping in filthy motel rooms, crashing on friends couches. I often missed the quiet simplicity that was my life before Hurricane Samantha came and ripped everything apart. But she was all I had, so I stuck around.

I tightened the white towel around my waist and moved to where I had laid out my fresh clothes on the moth-smelling comforter on the motel bed before I'd jumped in the shower. I had been anxious to wash the last twenty-four hours off my body, scrubbing my skin until it felt raw beneath the running water.

"Mad at you?" I echoed incredulously, throwing my t-shirt over my body angrily. "Mad at you? Of course I'm mad at you. I just spent the last twenty-four hours in prison, Sammy." My voice curled around that last word coldly. I knew she hated when I called her that, but unfortunately for her, I was twenty-four hours passed giving a damn.

I shook my head, angry. Angry at her, angry at myself. Just so fucking angry. I don't know what I expected from her—this is who she was, who she's always been: disorder and mayhem. Too much, I thought to myself. This was too goddamn much.

"First of all," she steamrolled ahead, like her very presence in my life wasn't the very thing that was ruining it. "You weren't in prison, you were in jail. There's a big difference. Second—"

I ran my fingers through my wet hair, shaking my head in disbelief. It felt like I was spitting venom when I growled, "Don't you dare try to get out of this on a technicality..."

"Second of all," Samantha cut me off, not giving a damn as she got to her feet and moved to stand in front of me while I hastily finished getting dressed. Every movement was shaky, I was so anxious, so furious. "They didn't even charge you with anything. You were in there like, five minutes before I swooped in and saved the day. Not that you care since you haven't even bothered to so much as thank me."

"What the hell am I supposed to thank you for?" Ruining everything? I thought to myself, that small part of me from years ago beginning to ache the way it used to when my life was falling apart. I shook my head, suddenly very tired. My voice was colder than I'd ever hurt it when I quietly admitted; "I should've let him have you."

The him I was referring to being the asshole from last night that had his grimy hands all over her extremely unwilling body. I heard her tell him no at least half a dozen times before I stepped in. That's when the fight between us broke out.

It started between swift kicks to his stomach, a sucker-punch to his jaw, a blow to the head and ended with me in handcuffs, being thrown into the back of a squad card while that bastard played the victim to the police, as if he hadn't been seconds away from sexually assaulting Sam.

For the briefest moment, the look on her face was as if I slapped her. I was about to say something to fix it before Samantha quickly schooled her expression. "You're gonna regret saying that after I tell you what I've been doing while you've been holed up all night."

I was mentally and physically exhausted—so beyond finished with everything at the moment, but still, there was something in her voice that gave me pause. "What are you talking about?"

"What am I talking about? Oh, nothing, just the thing that'll make us rich—set us up for life." I remained quiet; startled at the direction our conversation had taken. My eyes were inquisitive as her idea lit up her entire face. It made me sick—it gave me hope. "Royal Security."

I didn't know it at the time, but that was the very moment that my entire life changed course. And nothing in this world could have prepared me for what—or who—would come next.