Page 13

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 there or else while 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.

If I walked over there and placed the dagger in her hand, I’d probably be dead within seconds.

It’d be a glorious way to go.

Someone clears their throat. Fuck if I know who. Fuck if I care.

I’m back to pretending the girl with the black hair and wild eyes isn’t here.

No, that’s a lie. As Topher and I level our gazes and I place the tip of the dagger on the spot between his thumb and index finger, I don’t pretend Ophelia means nothing to me.

She takes up too much space in my head for me to do that.

She’s the reason I’m feeling so many goddamn things that I have no business feeling.

Is this her plan? Is this how she wants to get out of this? By ruining me?

By planting poison ivy seeds that, with enough watering and sun, will eat me up from the inside?

Congratu-fucking-lations, then.

It’s worked.

My blood turns molten. My grip around the dagger is too tight.

I’ve grown attached. Distracted.

This isn’t me. Yet it is.

Her fault. And mine.

I’m the one who’s let her do this. Foolishly, I believed that I held all the cards. I barged into her cell, bound her hands. Forced pleasure onto her.

While she was busy infiltrating my head. Taking up residence there.

No, this couldn’t have been her plan.

It happened anyway. It was enough that she wanted me. That she hated me. Her emotions were a mess, and I fell for it.

She did it to me.

Electricity simmers beneath my skin.

Then I make the mistake of pressing the blade to Topher’s skin and nick it before it’s time.

“James?” My name is a question on Oliver’s lips. He’s concerned.

“I’m fine.” It takes everything in me to stay in place. To keep up the charade when the only thing I can think of is whipping Ophelia’s ass for this. How dare she be the thing I never knew I needed. “Time to start.”

A huff. A hushed one from her. I hear it. I resent it.

I want to fuck that sound out of her.

The burning in my lungs is excruciating. I’ve never been this mad in my life.

The power isn’t hers.

It’s mine.

Like she is.

Never.

The word is now branded into my head. Has to stay there, a constant reminder. Otherwise, I’ll lose it completely. I’ll do something reckless. Belt her in front of the entire room.

Or kill everyone in it so that I can have her.

Ne. Ver.

Oliver and I share a look our fathers had the year we turned twenty-one. A dark look.

One that says Let’s get this show on the road . Nothing in his expression suggests he notices something’s off.

One nod, and we return our attention to our sons.

I start. “Tonight, you’re being initiated into the Hawthorne Morgan bloodline. It’s when boys turn into men. When you take on responsibilities passed on to you by your ancestors.”

A derisive, hushed snort from the corner of the room. This, too, isn’t Baylor. I can tell without averting my gaze to the two girls which one of them did that.

My cock throbs, infuriating me further. Her control over me can’t and won’t last.

After today, I won’t even know where she is.

“Every move you make,” Oliver recites what his old man said to us. Feels like it happened a lifetime ago. Or yesterday. “Every thought in your head. Your wealth. None of that is yours. We’re a family. A unit.”

“An unbreakable bond.” Topher’s features turn to stone at my words.

He could be conspiring to kill me as we speak. Could have plans to take over the business. Our fortune. Every cent of it.

Makes no difference to him that I never laid a hand on him. That I haven’t demanded anything of him except to wear a condom and keep up his good grades.

He wasn’t even born out of violence, like Camden.

But he does have my father’s genes running through his veins. Poisoning him.

He’s a spoiled, hot-tempered brat.

Somehow, though, I think Ophelia will have a better chance making it in life than my son. A strange notion.

“Do you accept?”

“We accept,” both sons say in unison. Camden’s voice echoes louder in the closed room.

Out of the two men, he’s always been the more eccentric one.

Much like his father. I can’t forget the day Camden convinced Topher to lock up a girl in his bedroom in third grade. I grounded Topher for two months after that little prank.

After the motherfucking principal—who hadn’t been the auction house’s client—called us in, I talked to Topher. Warned him that if he ever steps out of line again, there’ll be consequences.

That stopped Topher from joining Camden’s reckless adventures. In return, it toned down Camden’s psychotic tendencies.

“Your vows.” In my periphery, I see Oliver’s chest expanding.

Pride swells within him. A contrast to my barely contained rage. Takes a lot of work to hide it in plain sight. Takes even more of my resolve not to steal a glance at her.

“In our legacy, we trust,” they chant. “To accept us and our sacrifice.”

A whimper reaches us, which has to be the other woman. Ophelia doesn’t make a sound, but her contempt is glaringly obvious.

Ignoring her, Oliver and I dip our chins in acknowledgment. A sign that we accept. That they should continue.

“Our bloodline is sacred.” Topher pushes his shoulders back. Tilts his palm deeper into the blade. “It will never die.”

Their part of the ceremony is over. I, as does Oliver, push the dagger into my son’s palm. I break the skin a second time. Both of us slice a horizontal line across the inside of their palms.

I toss the dagger to the side so it won’t stain our tuxes, raising my hand to snap my fingers. The girl from behind the curtain rushes to us, bandaging Camden’s bleeding hand first.

Meanwhile, I keep holding on to Topher’s. His blood soaks my palm and drips down to the floor.

Drip. Drip. Drip.

Crimson on slate gray stone. A bond is created. A vow made, one I plan to break.

My plan. That’s what matters.

Not a dark-haired girl. Not the images of me punishing her.

Definitely not the depraved desires of bringing her metaphorically and physically to her knees.

This.

The end of these men and thus this legacy, which will happen sometime after the scheduled week off at home alone, is the only thing that matters.