Page 34 of Love to Defy You (The Dark Love #2)

One of the figures standing behind me yanks me to my feet and pushes me forward. I stumble before catching my balance and make my way to the front of the room. The scar slashing across my bare ass is visible for all to see, and their staring makes the air so thick, it’s hard to breathe.

Enzo gestures at the chair, and when I step onto the platform, I examine the tray of tools next to the burly man. I blow out a breath when I realize they aren’t pulling my teeth out today. I’ve never gotten a tattoo, but I know what a tattoo gun looks like.

My choice is clear: get branded or die.

The skulls on the wall stare at me with empty sockets and toothy grins, mocking me.

“Sit down, Aleksandr.” Enzo’s voice cuts through the silence. “Let us begin.”

I take a seat on the leather chair. I’m so cold my bones ache, and goosebumps rise on my shivering limbs as my teeth chatter.

“This is Gunther.” Enzo steps behind the burly man and pats his shoulders. “He’s an honorary member who has tattooed generations of brothers with the symbol of Apollo.”

Gunther yanks on my right arm and positions it palm-up on the armrest. He fastens a metal cuff around my wrist, shackling me to the chair, then takes an alcohol wipe and rubs it on my forearm.

When Enzo pulls up a stool on my left side, I resist the urge to growl like a rabid dog. I don’t want him anywhere near me while I lie bound and naked in a tattoo chair, but he secures the other cuff around my left wrist.

He runs his fingertip along my forearm. “Where did you get these scars?”

“I don’t see how that’s any of your concern,” I bite back.

Enzo shakes his head. “This is part of your test, Aleksandr. You must be honest with your brothers about your past.”

Gunther begins to outline the design on my skin with a stencil and pen.

“I’ll only ask one more time.” Enzo presses the pad of his finger against one of my white, circular scars. “Where did these come from?”

I grit my teeth. “From my father.”

Enzo stills. “Go on.”

I glance down at my dick, which has shriveled and receded in this frigid chamber. “My father enjoyed cigars just as much as he enjoyed putting them out on my arm.”

Enzo is enraptured with my scars, tracing them with his finger. “And why did he do that?”

I let out a hollow laugh. “Why else? Punishment.”

“Was he a cruel man?”

I narrow my gaze. “Yes.”

Silence falls between us. Neither of us speak until Gunther finishes his stencil design and snaps on a pair of latex gloves. He reaches for the tattoo gun and turns it on, and a mechanical buzzing pierces the silence.

“Did he give you the scar on your ass?” Enzo asks.

I shift in the leather seat, which is already starting to fuse to my bare cheeks. “Yes.”

“How?”

I take a breath through my nose, trying to fight the chill. “A belt. Eighteen lashes.”

Enzo strokes his chin. “Did it hurt?”

I snort. “Only a little.”

“Why did he do it?”

I close my eyes and think back to that night—a night I’d rather forget. “Because I defied him.”

Enzo quirks an eyebrow. “How?”

“By going against his wishes and falling for an American girl.”

Enzo hums. “Willow Baker.”

I open my eyes and stare at the wall of skulls stretching toward the ceiling.

Gunther brings the needle down on my arm, and a burning sensation pierces my skin. I grimace against the pain, although it’s nothing compared to the abuse I endured at my father’s hand.

“And this one?” Enzo prods at the scar on my bicep. The sensation is dulled from the nerve damage there.

“Bullet wound.” My patience is wearing thin with his inane questioning. “During the Labor Party uprising in Andarusia.”

“I see.” At last, Enzo removes his hands from my body and leans back in his chair. “The day the president of Andarusia was assassinated.”

The whirring of the tattoo gun fills the lull in the interrogation. After a couple of minutes, the pain dulls, though it’s likely from my skin growing numb.

“Did your mother not intervene with your father’s abuse?” Enzo asks after a long stretch.

“No.”

“Do you resent her for it?”

I grit my teeth to keep them from chattering. “I suppose so.”

He folds his hands in his lap. “What type of woman is she? Your mother?”

I shrug. “Self-absorbed. Vain. Singularly focused on money.”

Enzo continues to interrogate me, digging through my early childhood up until the Labor Party revolution and how I feel about being exiled.

He’s looking for some show of emotion or weakness to exploit, but he doesn’t get the rise out of me he wants.

As Gunter fills in the tattoo with black ink, Enzo grows restless.

If I weren’t on the brink of hypothermia, I would relish his frustration.

Enzo drums his fingers against his knee. “Tell me about Willow.”

He’s baiting me. Willow is my one weakness, and he knows it, but I refuse to let him win. “What about her?”

“Do you trust her to be faithful to you given her”—Enzo smirks—“proclivities?”

I play dumb. “Proclivities?”

“Her need to be adored. Lusted after.” His voice grows thick. “Fucked in front of an audience.”

“I don’t worry about her loyalty to me.” I glance down at the tattoo, which is almost complete—the lyre inside a circle and the arrow piercing through it.

“I saw her porn video, you know.”

My head shoots up.

Enzo chuckles. “The night I met you two in the restaurant, I knew she looked familiar. It took me a moment to remember where I knew her from, but when it clicked...” He licks his lips.

“I must admit, I was rather disappointed when the website got shut down. I can’t tell you how many times I watched it. ”

I bite down hard on my tongue before I lose my shit.

“I imagine you had something to do with that, yes?” Enzo asks. “Shutting the website down?”

I clench my jaw. “Anyone who operates a website disseminating revenge porn of a minor should be hanged, along with the sickos who watch it.”

Enzo leans forward. “Come on, Kurochkin. I find it hard to believe you didn’t sneak a peek.”

Not only did I sneak a peek but I kept a personal copy and beat myself off to it. “Once, but only to understand the extent of the damage to her reputation,” I lie.

“Of course.” Enzo’s dark eyes glint with humor. “Willow’s white knight.”

I’m no white knight. I’m depraved. I studied Willow from afar—her likes and dislikes, but particularly her sexual preferences—and learned everything I needed to know about her, waiting for the right moment to strike.

I was an opportunistic predator who hunted her and claimed her long before she realized she was mine.

“Done.” Gunther leans back and clicks the tattoo gun off. The mechanical buzzing stops, and the silence left in its wake is jarring.

My forearm prickles, and the skin around the completed design is a little red. I flex a couple of times to bring back feeling in my arm, and a vein rises through the center of the tattoo.

Enzo stands from his chair and turns to face the others. “Who’s next? Hmm, let’s go with…” Tapping his chin, Enzo examines the row of candidates far too eagerly for my taste. “Rasmussen, come on up. You’re next.”

When Gunther releases me from the shackles, I sit up from the recliner.

My back protests as my skin peels off the leather.

All the candidates turn toward the redheaded candidate, whose eyes grow wide.

He makes no move to get up, no doubt frozen in terror.

A hooded figure steps from the circle to pull him up by the arm.

The figure wears a rope tied around his waist with a sheathed dagger attached to it, and it reminds me of both a Catholic monk and an executioner warped into one twisted figure of death.

“W-what are you going to do to us after this?” Rasmussen’s voice shakes from the tremors running down his pale, naked form.

Enzo folds his arms and sneers down at him from the top of the platform. “You don’t get to ask questions.”

Rasmussen hangs his head. “I can’t take any more of this. Please—“

“Does that mean you choose the ultimate sacrifice?” Enzo quirks his brow. “It’s the only way out.”

The redheaded candidate lets out a choked sob. The hooded figure releases him, and he falls to his knees against the uneven cobblestone.

“Make your choice.” Enzo’s command rings in the dead silence that follows.

All eyes in the room are zeroed in on the pathetic figure. His shoulders rack with sobs as he stares down at his palms, faced with an impossible choice.

At last, Rasmussen takes a deep, rattling breath, and when he looks up to meet Enzo’s gaze, his expression has morphed into wild desperation.

“Well?” Enzo asks.

Rasmussen moves so fast that no one sees it coming. He whips around and grabs the knife hanging from the belt of the hooded figure standing behind him. Whirling in a circle, Rasmussen holds the dagger in front of him, his trembling hands clutched around the handle. “Don’t come any closer!”

The hooded figure closest to him steps back, hands raised in the air, but says nothing.

No one makes a move to stop him, but the air shifts in the chamber.

An uneasy tension lingers as Rasmussen turns in a circle, naked and crazed with red hair sticking out in all directions, making one last Hail Mary.

It’s futile, but I can’t help but admire his courage.

Rasmussen turns back toward the dais, facing Enzo and me, but then he stops. A cry of pain rings out through the chamber, and Rasmussen falls to the floor on all fours, his weapon clattering to the floor beside him.

A small throwing dagger is lodged into his upper back. I didn’t see who among the Order threw it, but I suppose it doesn’t matter. It won’t change his fate.

The figure with the rope around his waist approaches Rasmussen with calm, deliberate strides and picks up the stolen dagger. He steps behind the redheaded candidate and grabs him by the hair, pulling him onto his knees.

And then he drags the blade across his victim’s throat. Blood spurts out of Rasmussen’s neck, and a wretched gurgling sound comes from him as he chokes.

Time is suspended, stretching indefinitely, until the light leaves Rasmussen’s eyes. The air rushes from my lungs at the same moment he expels his final breath. My blood runs cold as though I, too, am experiencing death alongside him.

The executioner lets him go, and he falls forward, facedown onto the cobblestone. Blood starts to pool around his head, and he is left there, unceremoniously naked, as a stark warning to the rest of us.

Stand up against the Order of Apollo and you die.

Enzo claps his hands together. “All right, then. Who’s next?” His expression is alight with sinister glee as he surveys the remaining candidates. “After all, the fun is just getting started.”