Page 8

“I want you to make sure she’s safe,” he says, expression turning hard—looking more like his father than I’ve ever seen him. “But what I need you to do is make sure she gets away from here—from him.” He holds my eye, understanding passing between us. Still, he asks unnecessarily, “Got it?”

“Rex,” I say, shaking my head.

“Silas, I’m serious. Promise me.”

I swallow past the knot in my throat, a wave of nausea not far behind. Rex isn’t just my best friend, he’s also the leader’s son. The heir. My loyalty to him is greater than it is to anyone else, including Anex. That’s the reason I nod and accept his directive, even though it goes against every instinct I have.

Rex wants me to do whatever it takes to get Imogene out of here.

Even if that means leaving him behind.

4

Elon

“Make it a double this time,” I say, gesturing to my empty glass. The bartender, a woman named Shelly, eyes both me and the glass before grabbing the bottle from the shelf and pouring the amber liquid to the rim.

“You’re a big guy,” she says, gently pushing it my way, “but even big guys have limits. I think you’ve about reached yours.”

“Sweetheart,” I say, pulling the glass close, “you have no fucking idea about my limits.”

Trust me, I’ve been testing them. Day after day. Night after night. Just trying to see if I can reach them—reach the point where I can feel something other than the all-consuming rage that festers in my chest. The alcohol, well, it’s an attempt to numb it a little bit.

There’s only one thing—one person—that can quell the dark anger coursing through me, and she’s locked away, out of reach. She’s lost to me.

Who am I kidding? She was never mine to begin with.

I swallow the liquid in one gulp, letting the burn take over for a brief moment.

“You come in here, night after night, looking like hell and then head down to the ring,” the bartender says, dark ponytail swinging against the column of her neck. She takes my empty glass and drops it into the sink. The message is clear. She’s done serving me. “What’s your deal?”

I catch my reflection in the mirror behind the bar—my dark hair messy, a thick beard covers my cheeks and chin—as well as the gauntness of my cheekbones. It does nothing to hide the dark circles visible under my eyes that give me a look of worn-out desperation. The dried blood on my split lip I received during last night’s fight only accentuates it. I look homeless, which is apt.

I’m without a home.

Without my community.

Without my leader.

Banished.

“Don’t people come to these places to get lost?” I ask, reaching for the cash in my pocket—cash I earned downstairs—and peel off a few bills. “Isn’t it your job to make your patrons feel at home? Or at the very least, not ask a lot of intrusive questions?”

She leans over the bar, tits pressed against the thin fabric of her tank. She’s not wearing a bra, she never does, and her nipples seem perpetually hard. She’s the kind of girl Anex warned us about, tempting like a sweet, delicious, fruit, but she’s not the kind of secular girl we pursue. Too independent. Too confident. Trouble.

“You’re right. That was rude of me, but let me make it up to you.” She looks at the clock over the bar. “How about you come find me after your match.”

The bar is on the other side of the Whittmore campus, a shit-hole frequented by students trying to pretend they’re something more than entitled frat boys. It’s not the usual haunt Rex and I would frequent while working the University. This place doesn’t have the right clientele for Anex’s recruitment. That’s why I’m here. Well, that and the fact that downstairs is a fighting ring, a place for petty grudge matches and high stakes bets. I’ve spent most of my nights drinking and then going down to blow off some steam and earn a little cash. It’s not like Anex is funding my life outside Serendee.

“You in?” Shelly asks.

Fighting makes sense. Fucking, not so much, but I hold her eye, wondering how it would feel to lose myself in her—in someone. To find a reprieve from the anger and ache.

“Don’t embarrass yourself, doll,” a voice says from next seat over. “You’re not his type.”

Shelly’s gaze flicks to him. “Mind your own business, Royer.”

“He likes his women a little more subservient,” he grins over at me with a crooked and clearly drunk smile. “Isn’t that, right?”