Page 29

T he gentle click of Hayes’ boots fading into the distance as the door slips shut behind him breaks the taut silence draped over the common area like a suffocating shroud. Sucking my bottom lip between my teeth, I flick a sidelong glance towards Jace where he lounges splayed across the cushions—the picture of languid indifference as he processes the ominous undercurrents of that parting exchange with Hayes.

While the overt sparring between them retains a facade of rivalry and machismo, I’m not blind to the more visceral layers fuelling the charged atmosphere. Not after bearing witness to the depravity these very walls were erected upon. The horrors that have shaped Hayes and me into the empty, brittle shells of men we currently inhabit.

Christ, sometimes I envy Jace’s ignorance of those unspeakable evils. Even as our twisted matriarch’s claws continue to sink deeper, leeching the final dregs of humanity from within our tainted souls.

With a mirthless huff expelling the breath trapped in my lungs, I straighten my shoulders and fix Jace with a weighted look. “I need you to do something for me,” I begin without preamble, the syllables emerging laced with an edge despite my efforts to remain detached.

Predictably, Jace reacts to my abrupt segue with vague confusion. Those feline irises shift until they lock onto my stare with unveiled scepticism. “What’s got your knickers in a twist this time, bruv?” he drawls, an infuriating smirk curling the corners of those pillowy lips. “Don’t tell me you’re still in a strop over my little quip about—”

“Enough,” I grit through clenched teeth, bristling at the mere implication of having my seedy activities with that wretched crone dredged up again.

Mercifully, Jace seems to cotton on that pursuing this particular avenue would be unwise. Holding my stare for a fractured heartbeat longer, he allows an exaggerated shrug to ripple through that lithe frame before inclining his head in a show of acquiescence.

“Briar’s got a fitting with one of the dressmakers in the village this afternoon,” I redirect, ensuring each syllable remains clipped and devoid of inflection. “I need you to take her so the seamstress can make adjustments for her gown prior to the next Trial.”

The light of realisation flickers behind those expressive irises, only to be swiftly replaced with cynical derision. “Seriously, mate? You expect the little wench to pull off a society soiree properly this soon?” Jace scoffs, throwing his head back to affix me with a look of overt disbelief. “The smarmy cunts and their poxy Daughters won’t be able to resist pissing themselves laughing if she so much as smiles at the wrong bloke.”

I purse my lips into a tight line, pointedly refusing to rise to Jace’s provocative baiting. “That’s not our concern,” I rebuke icily. “Hansley’s made her decision on the matter. All we’re tasked with is following through on orders, not bloody questioning them.”

As predicted, Jace isn’t quite so amenable to leaving this bone unmolested. Those malachite irises narrow into slitted bemusement as he pushes up into a more upright slouch on the cushions, raking idle fingers through those inky curls. “If that’s the case, then why not send Hayes instead? Bit rich having me dote on the Neophyte when you know bloody well my tastes…”

He lets the implication dangle with a pointed arch of one brow, the taunting lilt in his tone unmistakable. And no matter how tempting it might be to counter such a provocative sally, I can’t resist the urge to meet his challenge head-on in kind.

“Hate to break it to you, darling,” I drawl with a dark chuckle that borders on outright menace, “but we both know Hayes isn’t precisely the queen you take him for, no matter how hard you beg him to treat you like his personal tart.”

The reaction is instantaneous and immensely satisfying. Jace recoils as if I’d violently backhanded him—complexion draining to an ashen hue as his lips part to unleash what’s sure to be a torrent of colourful invectives in retaliation.

But just like that, the fight seems to bleed out of his sleek frame in a deflating slump, chin ducking in concession to my point. A rusty bark of laughter bursts past his lips, that sultry mouth curving with grudging appreciation at being so effortlessly bested. “Touché, you bastard,” he concedes with a flippant roll of one shoulder. “Guess there’s no escaping the fact that being a judgemental arse is practically a prerequisite for membership in this fucking cult.”

His crass assessment earns nothing more than an indifferent shrug in response. It’s not as if Jace is incorrect regarding the depravities and perverse indoctrinations festering within The Order’s ranks. Not that I’m remotely inclined to expand any further upon that particularly grim reality, however.

Instead, I simply shove up from the chair and roll my shoulders as if shrugging off an invisible mantle while sidestepping around the seating arrangement. “We should get moving,” I mutter over my shoulder, not awaiting Jace’s affirmation—knowing damn well he’d never dare defy one of my directives outright. “That appointment is for two o’clock sharp.”

Striding towards my bedroom portal, I rap my knuckles against the sturdy oak in a perfunctory show of announcing my presence. The low murmurs from within abruptly cease, as if someone inside has emitted a harsh hiss to silence whatever discourse my arrival interrupted.

Pursing my lips, I don’t bother waiting for an invitation. Instead, I twist the knob and ease the door open with a measured push—stepping over the threshold into my quarters only to be met with two sets of inscrutable stares snapping in my direction. There, propped against the headboard in an amicable duo, sit Briar and Sid sporting mirrored looks of confusion at my abrupt entrance.

“Briar,” I address without preamble, “has a previous engagement to attend.” Shifting my gaze to the blonde, I arch a pointed brow. “Go find Jace. He’ll get you sorted for your dressmaker’s visit.”

Briar rolls her eyes in typical defiant fashion, scoffing under her breath. “There goes the bloody kennelmaster, cracking his whip again.”

Sid giggles softly at the quip, leaning over to plant a friendly peck against Briar’s porcelain cheek. “Laters, babe,” she murmurs with a playful wink before clambering off the bed in a fluid motion.

Pushing herself upright, Briar follows suit—sweeping those slender legs over the edge as she sits fully erect. Rising to her feet, she closes the distance between us with that inherent grace I’ve come to admire and dread in equal measure. Without sparing me a second glance, she brushes past—the subtle floral aroma of her shampoo wafting in her wake as she disappears out into the living area.

Sid shifts her weight, no doubt preparing to trail after the younger woman. But I’m quick to sidestep into her path, effectively trapping the lithe redhead inside my chambers with a strategic manoeuvre. Those hazel irises widen fractionally before her brows furrow, a sneer curling plump lips as Sid instinctively takes a halting step backwards to create some buffer between us.

Make no mistake, Sidney Cromwell might possess the delicate features of a porcelain doll, but the woman is far from vapid eye-candy or a helpless little damsel. Her mind is just as razor-sharp as the wintry glint currently flickering behind those ocean-hued depths—sizing me up with a predator’s astute wariness.

Not that her subtle defensive tells faze me in the slightest. If anything, they simply reinforce my long-held suspicion that Miss Cromwell has been playing ignorant far longer than any of us initially suspected. With another measured sidestep, I ease the door shut behind me—the soft click of the latch engaging sounding unusually loud in the taut silence.

“How long have you known?” I ask, refusing to mince words as I pin Sid with an inscrutable stare.

True to form, the athletic spitfire doesn’t so much as flinch beneath my scrutiny. Instead, she brazenly meets my steely regard head-on, lips twitching upwards in a guileless smile that doesn’t come close to masking the glint of challenge flickering within those taunting depths.

“Can’t say I have any idea what you’re talking about, mate,” she counters with feigned innocence, one delicate brow arching ever-so-slightly.

Crossing those toned arms over her chest, Sid straightens her shoulders in a transparent bid to appear unperturbed by my blunt interrogation. But I know damn well it’s also a subtle deflection—one I’ve witnessed countless times over the years with every reluctant informant and combative criminal I’ve been forced to deal with throughout my short career.

Not about to let Sid think she can skirt this line of questioning so easily, I shift my boots to block her retreat as she attempts slipping past me once more. My movement draws a deeper scowl etching between those sculpted brows, the redhead swallowing thickly as she eyes the solid barrier currently impeding her escape.

For a tense heartbeat, Sid seems to scan the confines of my room—no doubt searching for some verbal lifeline to cling to and change this interaction’s trajectory. But when none magically presents itself, because let’s face it—what feasible excuse could ever fly in our current circumstances—she finally meets my shrewd stare head-on.

“You can drop the bloody act with me, Sid,” I state in a tone that brooks no argument. “It’s woefully underperforming at this point.”

For an endless moment, there’s only weighty silence between us. Sid doesn’t so much as flinch beneath the intensity of my stare, meeting that scrutiny head-on with a boldness that few possess. At last, she exhales a haughty scoff and rolls those striking irises.

“You’ll need to be a bit more specific than that, love,” she drawls, one sculpted brow arching in open challenge.

I can’t resist quirking my own brow in response, canting my head ever-so-slightly as I silently study every nuance of her delicate features. “Very well,” I murmur at length, tone carefully measured. “How long have you been aware that you’re part of the Bride programme, Sidney?”

The shift in her demeanour is instantaneous—and immensely satisfying, if I’m being honest. Those full lips peel back in an outright snarl of disgust, as if she’s just caught a whiff of something particularly foul. One hand lifts in a curt, dismissive wave.

“Is that what you poncey twats refer to it as?” she spits, every syllable laced with naked revulsion. “The sick breeding programme the Order enlists all us women into?”

I hum noncommittally, refusing to be baited into allowing this discussion to veer off on some tangential rabbit hole. All I offer is a fractional dip of my chin—a subtle encouragement for the fiery redhead to elaborate further.

Sid seems to recognise that I won’t be so easily derailed. With a weary sigh, she shakes her head and wanders back towards the bed, perching on the very edge as if needing to ground herself before continuing.

“I’ve known since I was twelve,” she eventually mutters, refusing to lift her gaze from where her fingers fidget in a restless tangle in her lap. “My mum felt so guilty about the whole sodding mess that she just… came clean one day, y’know? Caused a right bloody fracas between her and my da for months after. Da threatened divorce. Fucker would do anything to drag his sorry arse back into their graces.”

I nod once in silent acknowledgment, taking a single measured stride deeper into the room. My approach doesn’t go unnoticed by Sid, those hazel irises flicking up to track my movements before hastily averting once more.

“I presume you realise there are only five years remaining before the Order drops you from the programme entirely?” I ask in a deceptively mild tone, studying her reaction with hawkish intensity. “Once you turn twenty-five, they’ll induce chemical amnesia, erase your memories and cut you loose.”

Sid’s shoulders slump infinitesimally at the words, her jaw clenching tight enough for the muscles to cord visibly beneath the smooth, sun-kissed flesh. I don’t miss the way her gaze falls, chin dipping in a subtle nod of unhappy confirmation.

“Yeah, well…” she hedges after a protracted pause. “Way I hear it, my family’s not exactly high up on the food chain anymore. So there’s a fair shout I’ll be lucky to slip under the radar and scrape on through without getting saddled off to one of you wankers as some bloody broodmare.”

The words prompt a fractional tightening in my chest, an instinctive lurch towards reassuring Sidney that her plight isn’t nearly so dismissible as she seems to believe. That whatever fate awaits her within these hallowed walls, it won’t be one of simple abandonment or indifference at the Order’s callous hands.

Before I can dwell too heavily on the troubling thought, I’m propelling myself forward to cover the remaining distance separating us. Rather than looming over her, I take a seat on the bed’s edge—maintaining a careful buffer of space between our forms.

“I need you to keep all of this from Briar,” I state, not so much as a directive but an impassive declaration of simple fact. “At least for now.”

Sid’s brow furrows at the words, some of that trademark defiance sparking behind those striking irises once more. “I only know about the bloody programme itself, not the details,” she counters, finally twisting to face me directly. “My folks aren’t Legacy, so they were never looped into the nitty gritty—just an old guard name that doesn’t carry much weight anymore. I can’t tell Briar shite she doesn’t already suspect herself.”

I fix her with a long, inscrutable look from beneath lowered lashes. Then, with a slow, measured inhalation: “If you intervene in any way, Sidney… I’ll be forced to kill you.”

The blunt words seem to catalyse the air itself—tension spiking until the very atmosphere crackles with it. But there’s no trace of malice or outright threat colouring my tone. Just cold, impassive certainty in stating an inescapable truth. One I’d honestly prefer to avoid if at all possible, knowing how deeply it would wound Briar.

After an interminable stretch, Sid finally tears her gaze from mine, teeth grinding along her lower lip until the abused flesh blanches white. Then, with the barest dip of her chin, she concedes to my demand with a solitary nod of acquiescence—too pragmatic to waste energy railing against our collective fates. I take the minute dip as affirmation enough, digging into the back pocket of my denims to retrieve my billfold.

With calculated motions, I slide the worn leather from its cradle, my thumb skating over the embossed crest blazoned across the front as I pause to ponder my next move. This is a line I’ve never dared cross with anyone outside of the group before—an olive branch whose repercussions could either help bolster a key alliance or send everything spiralling into utter chaos.

But as I flick my stare up to study Sidney’s features once more, that same ember of pragmatism smouldering in her irises solidifies my decision. With a measured inhalation, I pluck the keycard to my dorm from its compartment, holding it suspended between my index and middle fingers.

“You’re welcome to make use of this,” I murmur, extending my hand until the glossy plastic hovers a mere few inches from Sid’s face. “I’ll simply inform Administration that I’ve misplaced mine and request a replacement.”

Those expressive brows shoot upwards in naked surprise, Sidney’s head rocking back on her shoulders as she regards the unexpected offering with open incredulity. For several weighted beats, it’s as if she’s rendered utterly mute—gaze darting between the unassuming card and my own guarded expression like a deer caught in blinding headlamps.

Eventually, she seems to find her words once more, tongue swiping out to moisten those full lips in a wholly distracting tell. “You’re trusting me with…?”

I don’t so much as blink or bob my head to cut her off. Instead, I simply quirk one brow in subtle challenge—silently daring Sidney to voice her reservations aloud. To articulate precisely what sort of trust I’m being asked to place in those clever hands of hers by extending such a privilege.

If she were anyone else, I have little doubt the words ‘unfettered access’ would tumble forth without a solitary qualm. After all, very few beings alive grasp the true extent of the depravities to which this brotherhood is beholden. But Sidney… she knows far more than that pretty head of hers ought.

For a fractured instant, it seems as though she might call my unspoken bluff. That razor-sharp mind whirring with the multitude of ways someone like her could easily leverage this against me and bring the entire house of lies crumbling down around us.

In the end, though, it’s little more than a fleeting fantasy for the both of us. With a resigned shrug of one shoulder, Sidney seems to deflate—lifting her palm in silent invitation for me to deposit the keycard directly into her hand.

I don’t move a muscle.

Sid falters at my abrupt refusal to relinquish the coveted prize, brows knitting together in a frown as she regards me through the fringe of those dark lashes. I can practically see the questions tumbling through that clever mind. But before she can utter a single query, I raise my opposite hand in a wordless demand for silence.

Then, ensuring I hold that fierce stare for several weighted pulses, I at last allow the words to pour forth in a low, measured cadence. “You’re not to inform Briar of this under any circumstances,” I rumble, the rasp in my tone leaving no ambiguity that this is anything other than an absolute edict. “This arrangement is intended for emergency visits only, or when summoned. No late night sneaking in and out, taking Briar for joy rides. Nothing more, nothing less. Understood?”

For several fraught heartbeats, Sid can only gape at me in utter silence—that stubborn tilt of her chin wavering infinitesimally as she appears to weigh the implications of my decree. No doubt contemplating whether disobeying a directive so brazenly issued might actually be worth the untold consequences she’d undoubtedly face.

In the end, though, she seems to conclude that placating me is ultimately the wisest course of action for now. With a single, emphatic dip of her chin, Sid refrains from issuing so much as a token protest. Only then do I finally allow the keycard to slip from my grasp, depositing the glossy rectangle directly into her upturned palm with a sense of finality that ricochets like thunder between us.

Sidney stares down at the inconspicuous offering, fingers curling in a vice-like cage around the smooth plastic. When she next drags her gaze upwards, lips thinning into that taut line of grim acceptance once more, I can’t help feeling as though I’ve just tossed her an elusive lure.

One whose seductive temptation promises freedoms and privileges far beyond either of our present stations, yet whose barbed hook could just as easily lead to both our undoings as it buries deeper into the rabbit hole of secrets I’m beckoning her to tumble down.