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Our employees have clearedout the back room behind the stage, except for one woman. She’s silent. Hidden behind a thick wine-colored curtain. Waiting for us to call her.

The lights back here have been dimmed to a bare minimum. Candles have been placed strategically along the walls of the sixty-square-foot room. They flicker in the darkness, offering enough illumination to see our sons and their sacrifices.

Oliver staged the scene. I gave him the go-ahead, doing as was expected of me. Again.

Which isn’t what I’m doing now.

With the sterilized, ancient dagger in my hand, I’m supposed to be looking at my son, who stands in front of me.

If not Topher, I should be talking to Oliver, who’s at my side.

Or to his son, Camden, who looks nothing like his dad and so much like his dead mother, with his bright blue eyes and sandy blond hair. The one I, unfortunately, couldn’t save.

We’re about to welcome these two young men into our inner circle. Listen to them chant the words every man in our lineage had.

That’s what’s important.

This so-called history in the making.

Yet I can’t keep my eyes off her.

Ophelia and—what’s her name—Baylor are huddled in the corner, where they should be, according to our tradition.

The girls wear identical long-sleeved, laced black gowns. They’ve been tailored so they reach their ankles, right above their bare feet. Their hair was straightened and left loose to cascade down the front of their bodies.

Minimal makeup. Pale pink lipstick. Dark mascara on their lashes.

Black silk panties, no bra.

A carbon copy of our sacrifices’ outfits and makeup, other than the nails.

We were initiated in a different room than this one. A place we burned to the ground. But ours were positioned in the corner too. They were threatened to stay thereor elsewhile we were tattooed, then welcomed into the inner circle by our fathers.

I shouldn’t be looking at her.

I can’t stop.

Back then, my attention was trained on my father. At his dark, thinning hair and jade green eyes. Relief flooded my veins.

The girls held little to no importance to me, but I could save them, so I did.

“Dad?” Topher’s annoyed voice cuts into my thoughts. Stops me from staring at the beautiful young woman. Her hands are balled into fists, ready to fight. “Are we going to start or what?”

Or what. Such blatant disrespect.

“We are.” At that, Oliver and I flip our free hand to face up in tandem.

Topher and Camden each tug up the sleeves of their tuxes and place their hands in ours, also facing up. The tattoo artists left their inked hands unbandaged for the second part of the ceremony.

My son’s blue eyes are directed at mine.

There’s no reason for me to be distracted when he’s this close.

Except I’m tuned into Ophelia’s quickened breaths. Her angry energy. I sense it down in my bones.

The time we spent together in the cell offered me a glimpse into her soul. It formed a connection between us.

The fire. The tears. The frustration. How she was desperate to be touched. So many things I couldn’t see from afar.