Page 45 of Degradation (The Brethren Lords #3)

Devin

T he Cathedral is filled with the sweet sickly scent of incense. It mingles with the soft rustling of silk and the murmur of hushed voices. My eyes dart around the room, taking in the masked faces of the Lords and Ladies before us.

Gunther looks almost resplendent in his golden robes. He stands at the altar beside his wife as if they’re the very image of what a perfect marriage should look like.

It’s been two weeks since he burnt her maid alive. She’s been kept in her room since. Locked in.

We’ve all heard her screams, heard her attempts to get out.

Silly bitch just doesn’t learn her lesson, does she?

Today, she looks regal, royal even, her posture is perfect, her eyes fixed on her husband as if she has unwavering loyalty for him. The mask she wears, is an exquisite piece of craftsmanship, hiding her bruised and battered face while the mouthpiece ensures her silence.

I can’t help but wonder what thoughts are swirling behind those beautiful eyes.

As Gunther begins his speech, his voice resonates through the Cathedral, deep and commanding.

It’s so unlike the man I’ve come to know, all his mania, all his erratic movements are gone, right now he’s clearly mastered whatever it is that plagues him.

He speaks of servitude, devotion, and the rewards that come to those who know their place.

I listen carefully, trying to decipher if his words are meant for Paitlyn or for the audience.

Perhaps, I think, they are meant for both.

The ceremony progresses, and Gunther begins to bless each Lord and Lady. They kneel before him, their masks removed, revealing faces painted with piety and reverence. I grimace; my mind filled with the knowledge of what Gunther has done to the communion wafers.

I watch as he places the tainted wafer into each recipient’s mouth, his words, “the seeds of life,” ringing hollow in my ears, and the irony of it doesn’t escape me.

Each Lord and Lady accepts the blessing graciously. Some seem to hesitate for a moment before consuming it, their expressions betraying a flicker of doubt or discomfort. But they all comply, swallowing the tainted offering without protest.

Gunther then raises a golden chalice, filled with holy wine.

He takes a sip, his face a picture of piety, before offering it to the kneeling nobles.

He allows the wine to overpour, letting it spill down the front of some of the women’s dresses, soaking into their cleavages.

I watch, noting, as he targets the young, pretty ones, his actions a blatant display of power and dominance.

When it’s all over, the happy couple step down and are ushered out. Gunther has his hand on the small of Paitlyn’s back and he’s all but shoving her along, like he thinks that in this moment she might do something, say something, create a scene that he can’t control.

I wonder what would happen if she did. What would he do?

Sure, he would punish her, but such a display would have ramifications, big ones.

It feels like we’re all on a precipice, like the entire elite are aware of what Gunther is becoming, what he’s devolving into.

We’re a box of tinder, waiting for that one spark to catch.

As soon as we reach the back corridors, Gunther fully flings his wife out the way. She cries out, slamming into a pillar and nobody moves to catch her as she slides down to the floor.

“What did I do?” She whispers, that solid mask now off her face, lying beside her, as useless as her words are.

No one replies. Gunther just barks for someone to get the whore out of his sight.

Mace and Lyndon are the ones to do it, they scoop her up, half-carry her off to where the cars are waiting. It’s notable that Gunther ordered a whole fleet to transport them. It’s like he expected trouble, like he knew he wouldn’t be travelling back with her.

I catch a glimpse of her face as she disappears around the corner, and the look she gives me, it’s one of pure hate. Pure malice.

I can’t help but smirk. I can’t help but feel something in my cock too.

Little bitch, I’ll have my moment soon enough. I’ll show you what true hate is, I’ll carve it out into every part of you.

“She’s a sweet thing.” Someone mutters beside me, and I frown, realising that it’s Gunther’s brother.

He’s not meant to be here. Not meant to be out.

The man is all but excommunicated from good society.

He and a few others got caught running an underage breeding programme years ago.

Hundreds of girls were involved. Hundreds of babies too.

Not that anyone has done a thing to trace them.

The girls were dealt with the only way possible.

The few babies that were in the facility were distributed to worthy families and the rest was sorted out in a manner that kept everyone happy enough to not make a fuss.

But Guthrie has no business being back. Ever being back. The only thing that stopped him being executed was the fact that Gunther is his brother.

I glance at the Chapter Lord as he yanks off one layer of his robes and then another, tossing them for the Priests to pick up.

I wonder if the mania that haunts Gunther is also in Guthrie.

If that’s the problem. Things run in the blood; I know that more than most. My mother’s blood runs through my veins, just as it does Magnus’ and Conrad’s, they’re just too scared by what it is to embrace it.

I choose not to reply to his words. I know better than to be so stupid.

Gunther spots his brother and narrows his eyes. “The fuck are you doing here?” He asks.

“Watching your back, just as always.” Guthrie replies.

A few of the guards react to that, to the insult, does he think we’re not up to the job?

“Someone might see…” Gunther begins but Guthrie wraps his arm around his shoulder, and he falls silent.

“Nonsense. No one will see. No one will look. You’re the Chapter Lord, you’re in charge. You make the rules, remember? And so what if they do see, so what if they know? No one can stop you. You’re too powerful, too big. You’re a God, brother. And what God answers to mortals?”

“None,” Gunther says, though he sounds unsure.

“None. That’s right.” Guthrie repeats, slapping him on the back for good measure.

I can’t tell if Guthrie is full of shit or as mad as Gunther is. Perhaps he’s the reason our dear Chapter Lord is so close to completely and utterly losing it.

I glance across at Commander Malik and he looks absolutely furious to see Guthrie is there.

“We had an agreement, Chapter Lord.” Malik says quietly.

Gunther draws in a breath, shaking his head. “He’s my brother. I don’t have to explain myself…”

“And we don’t have to put ourselves at risk for the likes of him.” Malik states.

Gunther blinks, like it’s the first time he’s ever been told no in his life. “What did you say?” He splutters.

“You heard.” Malik replies. “That man is excommunicated. We all know what that means, what the consequences are. If you’re willingly to turn a blind eye, that’s your prerogative, but we have rules, as Chapter Guards, we have clear, defined instructions.”

Gunther launches himself at Malik. The movement clearly catches the Commander off guard, and he stumbles back. Gunther manages to get one good blow in before Lyle and Curtis are pulling him off.

It’s a shit show. Guthrie pulls himself into the mix, kicking, snarling, punching whoever he can get hold of.

Those of us watching are torn between our loyalty to Gunther and our need to follow the rules that have been beaten and instilled into us for the last god knows how long. But the longer this goes on, the longer this is turning to anarchy.

“Car’s ready.” I bark, choosing an option that might defuse, or that might do fuck all.

I grab hold of Lyle, shoving him out the way, and with one hand, I create a scruff of fabric at the back of Gunther’s neck. I pull him free, pushing him past the chaos and as the other guards see, the fight fizzles out to nothing.

We get outside while Gunther is still shouting about insubordination and treason, and I wonder if this is all going to get far worse once we reach the Palace.

Guthrie is hot on our heels, jeering him on, shouting that every treacherous one of us should be strung up by our balls.

I don’t react; I just keep moving Gunther onwards.

Suddenly, a flicker of movement catches my eye where there should be none. Instinct takes over as I recognise the threat, the flash of metal; it’s a gun barrel emerging from the shadows.

I don’t think twice, I don’t hesitate for a second. I throw myself on top of Gunther, my body shielding his as a bullet whizzes past.

The sound echoes off the high stone walls, and it’s followed by the chaotic clamour of all the guards rushing to find the attacker. Rushing to secure the scene.

In the heart of this pandemonium, Gunther starts shouting, screaming, fighting too.

Does he think I’m the one trying to kill him?

Does he think that all of this is a set up?

I hold him down, struggle with the mass of his body, despite my own size, and it takes almost all my strength to keep the bastard out of harms way.

Another bullet streaks past us. It cuts so close I can hear the sound of it screeching in my ears.

Gunther starts sobbing, pleading, saying that he doesn’t want to die, but if the bastard simply shut the fuck up and did as he was told then I’d ensure that didn’t happen.

Ahead, one of our men fall, it’s Lyle. A bullet lodges in his chest, and his eyes stare out in shock and surprise as he hits the floor like a dead lump.

Curtis takes another, stumbles and falls, clutching his leg where blood is now pouring out. It’s a flesh wound, at least it should be.

I spot the armoured car, spot my moment, and I toss Gunther over my shoulder like he’s a baby. I sprint as fast as I can go, wrench the door open, and shove his mass inside.

“Go.” I order.

“Wait…” Guthrie’s voice carries behind us.

The driver looks to Gunther, and he shakes his head, “Fuck him.” Gunther says, like he didn’t just start an entire fucking brawl over his damned brother.

“Go.” I repeat, slamming the door, watching as it speeds off.