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Finished shaving, I wipe my face and chest with a towel, soaking up any excess water. The cut is small, a thin line, and it seems to have stopped bleeding. I take the shirt from Graves’ outstretched hand and pull it on over my head, then drop thetowel and slip on the matching pants, knowing they won’t stay on long.

Running my hand through my hair, I meet Graves at the bookcase. “It’s going to be okay.”

Here we go.

“I never said it wouldn’t be.”

“I like her,” he admits. “She’s quirky and strong-willed. Eccentric, yes. But she wants to do this.”

This.What a resounding vote for marriage.

“She’s a child,” I remind him, reaching for the book,The Hexalogion: A Study of Forbidden Rites,giving the spine a sharp tug. “Who has no fucking clue what ‘this’ entails.”

The tight sensation of her pussy told that story alone. I probably should have had either DK or Hunter pop that, and then lie to her Uncle. Whatever, and however, they prepared her, it’s not going to be enough.

The hidden door springs open, revealing a staircase that leads to the underground.

“Regardless, the wedding takes place tomorrow, and this is part of the process.” His smile is sad. “It doesn’t have to be terrible, you know.”

So says a man without the blood of his family on his hands, or come tomorrow, a virgin’s blood on his dick.

“Goodnight, Graves. I’ll see you on the other side.”

My friend closes the door, and I start down the narrow stairwell alone, aware that with each step I’m moving that much closer to reality–to my future. Even before I’ve descended fully into the ritual chamber beneath the House of Night, my skin prickles with a heat that makes the shower pointless. I’m sweating, nauseated by the cloying scent of incense filling the air–crushed dahlias.

It’s claustrophobic, intentionally.

Each step is part of the ritual. Each breath, a letting go. Above, the House of Night slumbers behind its fortress walls. But here, beneath the surface, something stirs.

The chamber has been prepared: low-lit by red and violet candles, the scent of melted wax thick in the air. Shadows dance across the carved symbols on the walls–old language, older meaning. The altar is obsidian, oval with smooth edges. Around it: five women, kneeling in a half-circle like offerings. Faces painted, bodies slick with oil.

My stomach turns at the sight. Not from disgust, although I’ve done my best throughout the years to maintain my vows to my wife. No, from the familiar weight of bitterness crawling up my throat. Like so many things about being the King to these people, this isn't about want. It’s about tradition. About loyalty to a set of rules older than logic and far crueler.

Lore says that before the Black Wedding, the King must be cleansed of his past. That his sins must be scattered among the veiled, his soul stripped bare, scrubbed down with oil and lust and ancient ceremony.

So here I am.

Participating. Pretending.

Wishing I could drown myself in booze and drugs until none of it matters.

The altar waits. Cold stone like a funeral slab. I glance at the circle of women, each chosen, each disguised, each representing what I’m meant to leave behind.

Lust. Betrayal. Grief. Power. Silence.

Named for the sins I’ve committed, the pieces of myself I want to leave in the past.

Amber would’ve laughed at this.

No, she would’ve watched from the shadows. Lips pursed. That dangerous, quiet sort of disdain in her eyes. I’d always seen the fire in her–the difference. I felt it in her body when wemade love. In her words when we fought. I didn’t know about her demons, not really. I loved her, and I thought that love was enough.

She gave me Remy. And then… well, then she lost her mind.

“Cleanse me,” I whisper, not as a plea, but an invocation.

Lustrises, and she rids me of my clothes, pulling off the shirt and pants. With hands, with tongue, with heat and submission. My sins rise like steam off skin when she strokes me, working my cock into a hard weapon. The ritual demands I break apart and with their help come back together again. Ironic. Breaking is what I do best when it comes to women, to family.

I’m weak to her touch, thrusting hard into her hand. Crumbling in the same way I broke the vow to my first wife. I close my eyes and see Amber’s back instead–her walking out the door, Remy screaming behind her.