Page 33 of Love to Defy You (The Dark Love #2)

“Good night, good night,” I murmur. “Parting is such sweet sorrow, That I shall say good night till it be morrow.”

When she smiles—hair disheveled, lips swollen, and nipples pebbled against her robe—my breath hitches. I snap a mental picture of her to carry with me, something to hold when things get dark.

And I have no doubt I’m about to walk into the darkest, blackest pits of hell.

The invitation told me to meet them at the usual spot in the Weltner courtyard, so I head to campus on foot with my weekend bag slung over my shoulder.

Springtime in Zurich is similar to Andarusia, so the cool breeze on my face is comforting and familiar.

Sakura trees are in bloom all over the city, along with flowers of every color that line the sidewalks and the front stoops of apartment buildings.

But I can’t let this idyllic facade distract me from what lies ahead: the Trial of Hubris. I don’t know what this ritual will entail or why it requires an entire weekend away, but I imagine they’ll try to humiliate us in one manner or another to break down our pride.

I need to remain vigilant.

When I arrive to campus, the sun is just starting to set, and since the spring holiday starts Monday, very few students remain at Weltner.

A group of candidates waits near the cellar, all with duffel bags, and as I approach, a few of them glance up and nod in greeting.

After a quick count, I realize I’m the last one of nine to arrive.

Twelve victors emerged from the Trial of Wrath, but only eleven heeded the call. The consequence was death.

At the Feast of Apollo, Enzo admitted that two more candidates were eliminated.

It begs the question: How many of us nine will survive the weekend?

Henri Rooman stands off to the side under a tree, but his complexion is tinged green, and he refuses to meet my gaze.

No one speaks as we wait in pregnant silence.

The cellar door creaks open, and we turn toward the sound. A hooded figure emerges from its depths and ushers us inside.

Per usual, another hooded figure awaits us at the bottom of the stairs with a torch, and he heads off in the direction of the chamber.

But as we meander farther through the maze of tunnels, certain features pop out that I’ve never seen before, like symbols drawn in faded chalk and an alcove that wasn’t there last time. This route is unfamiliar.

We round another corner into a long hallway with solid iron doors on either side. The guide in front starts opening cell doors and points. “Get inside. One man to a cell.”

A collective groan rises from the line of candidates, but we have no choice but to comply.

I pick an available cell at the end of the row and head inside, where only a stone bench and a bucket are provided to sleep and shit.

I’ve stayed in similar accommodations, and it takes me back to the day the Labor Party resistance fighters kidnapped me.

At least this time, my arms aren’t tied behind my back, and I’m not bleeding from a gunshot wound.

Two days. I can endure two days of this.

The heavy door slams shut behind me, plunging the room into pitch-black darkness, and when I whirl around, I stumble. The sudden loss of my eyesight catches me off guard, but I find my center of gravity and balance myself before falling to the ground.

The bench is in the back left corner of the cell, so I inch my way forward until my foot hits it, and I sit down. I set my bag beside me and search for my phone to turn on the flashlight.

More doors slam shut in the hall, but they sound far away, as though I’m trapped in a deep well. I check my phone for service, but of course, there’s no signal underground.

A few minutes pass before the door opens again, and the dim torchlight from the hall floods into the cell. Two dark silhouettes enter the room, and I hold up my phone’s flashlight to shine a light on their faces.

“Mikhail. Enzo.” I growl out the latter’s name through gritted teeth.

Mikhail stands in the corner of the cell with his arms crossed while Enzo approaches me with a satisfied smirk on his face. Both of them are wearing street clothes instead of the usual cloak and mask.

Enzo holds out his palm and nods at my phone. “Hand it over.”

There’s no use asking what happens if I don’t comply. I already know.

Blowing out a breath, I turn off the phone and put it in Enzo’s hand. He leans down and grabs my bag off the bench, slips the phone inside, and passes it off to Mikhail. “You’ll get these back at the end of the trial.”

I scowl. “Can’t wait.”

Enzo chuckles and turns his back on me before heading back into the hallway. Mikhail opens his mouth to say something but shakes his head. Instead, he gives me a tight smile that doesn’t reach his eyes and leaves, closing the cell door behind him.

It’s hard to tell time in here without a clock or a way to engage my brain, so I lie back on the bench and conjure the snapshot of Willow’s face from earlier.

If this ritual forces me to live in squalor for two days, I may just pass the time by jerking off to thoughts of my fiancée.

It isn’t a bad way to entertain myself, and I might as well make the most of this situation.

Later, the door opens again, and a guy I vaguely remember from the Feast of Apollo steps inside. He sets a wooden bowl on the floor beside a glass of water. “Dinner’s here.”

Before I can ask what it is, he slams the door shut, plunging me into darkness once more. With an annoyed grunt, I stand up and feel my way around the room using the wall. When the stone turns to iron, I press my back to the door and slide down into a cross-legged position on the rough floor.

I pat the ground like a blind beggar until I find the bowl. When I lift it to my nose, the stench of rotten cabbage assaults my senses, and I set it back down. I’ll pass.

At least the water is clean when I take a tentative sip, although it’s a little warm for my taste.

I make my way back around the room to the bench and take a seat to finish the glass in complete darkness.

My stomach growls, so I lie back on the cold stone bench and will myself to go to sleep.

If all they’re going to feed us is inedible slop, then I’m better off sleeping and conserving my energy.

It’s preferable than enduring the hunger pangs.

But in the dark, the line between sleep and consciousness is blurred.

A loud bang rips me awake, and I bolt upright with a sharp breath.

Light floods the cell from the open door, and multiple hooded figures crowd around me.

One of them holds a pair of cymbals, which they crash together over and over again without any discernible tempo, and the others shout in a cacophony of voices that rings in my ears.

The figures close in on me and pull me off the bench by my arms. They tear at my clothes, ripping my T-shirt down the middle, but when they grab onto the waistband of my slacks, I try to push them off.

I’m outnumbered, and they easily force my arms behind my back while someone yanks down my pants and underwear.

They drag me into the hall, and the discordant shouting and cymbal crashing grow louder. The other candidates are shoved into the hallway, stark naked, as a crowd of cloaked figures sweeps them down the corridor. Fighting back would be like trying to swim against an ocean current. Useless.

The noise rings in my ears and reaches a fever pitch when we arrive in the inner chamber.

Their voices bounce off the arched ceilings as they march us in a straight line toward the center of the room, where they shove us to our knees on the cold, damp floor.

My shins protest the impact of the hard stone on my bones.

Someone yells on my right, but before I can even turn to look, frigid water crashes over me.

I gasp at the jarring assault on my senses and wipe water from my eyes.

The liquid dripping down my bare back is so cold it burns.

When I glance down the row, the other candidates are screaming and shivering as cloaked figures dump buckets of ice water over their heads and shout obscenities at us, calling us filthy dogs, sons of whores, and pig fuckers.

At last, the shouting and cymbal crashing stop, but the echo reverberates in the room for a solid five seconds before fading to silence.

A figure steps forward and lowers his hood—Enzo Messina. His dark gaze takes in my naked, shivering form on the floor, and the bastard smirks, clearly enjoying every bit of my humiliation.

“Welcome, candidates, to the Trial of Hubris.” Enzo paces along the row, looking down at each of us over his nose. “To overcome this ritual, you will bare all to your brothers—your bodies and your deepest secrets—and at the end of this weekend, you will be one step closer to becoming a god.”

“In death, we become gods!” the hooded figures shout in unison. “We are gods among men!” They thump their chests once before falling silent.

“We will break you down to build you back up again.” Enzo’s penetrating gaze meets mine.

“We will rebuild you into something stronger than before. Into a god.” With a sweep of his cloak, he turns his back on us and approaches the raised platform beneath the wall of skulls.

At the top is a black leather recliner that resembles a dentist’s chair, and beside it, a burly, bearded man sits on a stool with full sleeves of tattoos running up his arms. He cleans a set of tools on a silver tray.

My stomach lurches. Will they pluck out our teeth and add them to their grotesque Altar of the Dead?

Enzo runs his hand over the leather chair with a reverent touch. “Who shall go first?”

We keep our mouths shut, and the silence roars in my ears.

“No volunteers?” Enzo clucks his tongue. “No matter. Let’s start with Aleksandr.” His lips curl into a wicked grin. “Come here.”