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SINKLER

The Blackthorn Boys

Present

When a Blackthorn turns 21, they must select their prey with careful consideration.

Each year, right around Christmas time, the selection takes place.

For generations, The Claiming Hunt has been a long-standing tradition established by my great-grandfather.

It was no secret that he, along with my grandfather and father, were not good men, but that’s just the norm in the Bratva.

And this year, The Claiming Hunt is finally ours.

There are no limits and no restrictions on what you can do to possess your prey.

It’s only when the name is said that the prey becomes ours, and we can seize it without hesitation.

Sharing it is not an option.

That’s the only rule.

But when it comes to following them, my twin and I are known for doing the exact opposite.

Saint and I are Mikhailov, and like our late great-grandfather, we know exactly who we want.

Especially after the information we gathered about her.

No matter her upcoming nuptials, her soon-to-be husband’s time on earth will be cut short.

We know that there may be some foolish individuals among the new members who will attempt to challenge our authority, or it could potentially be the elite Bratva themselves who have a penchant for defying us.

My gaze shifts around the dark room, taking in the sight of the people present.

Everyone is dressed in black academic gowns, our hoods pulled up over our heads. Each gown is adorned with a prominent red stripe, setting us apart from the white stripes worn by the new members.

Our faces are hidden behind a gold mask, its bronze hue accentuated by silver lines. The mouth of the mask is crafted to appear as if the lips are partially parted yet stitched together.

The atmosphere is more reminiscent of Halloween than Christmas.

“Gentlemen,” starts Malric. “After years of waiting, it’s finally your turn.”

The boys’ cheers fill the air with pure delight, while Malric can’t help but chuckle at their excitement.

“This is your last year at Blackthorn University. Each of you will come on this stage and announce the name of your chosen. Once that’s done, you’ll have complete freedom to pursue your prey however you please, but remember, you have a year. Once the year has passed, your prey will be back in the game, ready to be hunted.”

I don’t mind a hunt, but it’s more Nikolas’ thing than mine.

Beside me, Adrik, Viktor, Aleksei, and Lev give me a slight nod.

There may be one rule, but we all have each other’s back, no matter what. Apart from my twin, they’ve been my ride-or-die.

“Let the claiming begin.” Malric claps his hands.

As the first person approaches the stage, I sense Saint tensing up.

The sound of names being spoken echoes through the room, accompanied by the enthusiastic cheers of the audience. Aleksei visibly lets out a sigh of relief as his turn approaches.

He has been eagerly anticipating that moment for years. Years to have his twin sister. We’re all fucked up, and we know it, so nobody is surprised when he says, “Alesya Nikolaev.”

I don’t see his face, but I know there’s a satisfied smile behind it.

Lev is next in line, and to my surprise, he chose a girl that I did not expect.

“What’s the name of your chosen one?” Malric asks him.

“Thea Barlowe,” Lev replies.

Yeah, I absolutely did not think he would have selected Thea, the embodiment of sweetness and innocence, as his choice.

Up next is Adrik, and unlike Lev, I knew he would choose his step-cousin.

“What’s the name of your chosen one?” Malric asks Adrik.

“Tanya Sokolova.”

The wanker leaves the stage, winking at me through his mask before making way for Viktor.

“What’s the name of your chosen one?”

“Alisa Whitlock.” Viktor’s calm voice belied the hardness that resonated through his words.

The ceremony continues, each man selecting their prey, until Jaxon catches my attention, confidently stepping forward, a determined sparkle in his eyes.

His face might be concealed, but I’d recognise anyone in this room by their posture.

I’m not known for being gentle. Describing me as cruel would probably be accurate, but Jaxon is simply a relentless annoyance, determined to provoke me.

Not to mention him forcing his way with women.

I had no motive to kill him… until now.

“What’s the name of your chosen one?” Malric asks like a broken record.

“Harper Mikhailov.”

The room becomes silent. There are no cheers, no words, only a profound silence that fills the air. Even Malric tenses before diverting his gaze towards us.

Weirdly, Dimitri doesn’t say a word, which is disappointing, knowing he thinks he’s going to marry her.

“He did not say that,” Aleksei chuckles in my ear.

“The boy is afraid of nothing,” continues Lev.

“You might want to reconsider your choice,” I advise, but the dickhead laughs.

“Sorry, Mikhailov, but you know the rules. I can’t wait to have my cock buried so deep into your baby sister’s pussy that she’ll scream for me to stop.”

Malric’s instincts kick in, warning him that something bad is about to happen, prompting him to take a cautious step to the side.

And he’s right.

I glance at my twin, and he gives me a single nod.

Among the two of us, Nikolas is undeniably the kindest, but he’s far from being a saint despite our sister calling him Saint.

“You’re right. There are no rules. Unfortunately for you, this would have led you straight into the path of your untimely end.”

Without budging from my seat, I swiftly retrieve the concealed knife from my belt and hurl it with precision, watching it find its mark on his throat.

Backing away, he stumbles and collapses onto the floor. Desperate, he stretches out his hands in an attempt to grasp the knife, but his fate is sealed—death is his only outcome.

Malric sighs and mumbles, “I knew that would happen.”

There’s complete silence in the room, except for the audible gasps from the new members.

“Whitethorn,” he shouts to the juniors. “Clean up this mess.”

At lightning speed, they swiftly execute the order while my twin confidently takes up the stage.

“Do I really need to ask?” Malric raises his brow.

“Please, do. Just in case people didn’t get the memo.”

“What’s the name of your chosen one?” Malric sighs.

“Harper Mikhailov.”

I sense the new members tensing up, their bodies growing rigid, perhaps anticipating that I would treat Saint the same way. And with our masks on, they can’t see that we bear an identical face.

When Saint comes back, it’s finally my turn to take the stage.

“You know people won’t be pleased,” murmurs Malric, already knowing what will be my choice.

“For someone who is supposed to be a heartless killer, it seems like you are surprisingly empathetic towards others.”

“I don’t. I just don’t want my recruits to dwindle down to zero because you’d have to kill all of them.”

“After what happened with Jaxon, if someone dares to speak up, it would imply they had lost their sanity.”

“For fuck’s sake.” Glancing around, he lets out a resigned sigh and asks, “What’s the name of your chosen one?”

“Harper Mikhailov.”

It seems like the newbies have no fear.

“He can’t pick the same girl,” a voice is heard.

“Can’t I?” I tilt my head to the side. “You should be happy I’m not selecting the same target as you, but if you insist, I’m willing to alter my decision. But that would mean you’ll end up exactly like your friend—my knife in your throat.”

He shakes his head vehemently before sinking back into his seat.

“That’s what I thought.”

“Very well.” Malric claps his hands. “Blackthorn Boys, you have a year. Let the chase begin.”

Just as we’re all ready to leave, Dimitri Popov approaches us with an unmistakable air of displeasure.

“You might have chosen her as your prey, but she belongs to me, and you’ll meet your end before you ever lay a hand on her.”

Just because my father decided to marry her to him doesn’t make her his.

“Watch your back, Mikhailov,” he continues. “Because I’m ready to fight.”

A devious laugh leaves my lips. “Popov, Harper doesn’t need a fighter; she needs someone to witness the world go up in flames as she sets it ablaze.”

“I’ll kill you both,” he spits out. “This bitch belongs to me by right.”

Just as I am about to smash his fucking face, Saint’s hand lands on my shoulder, calming me instantly.

“You’ll die for your words, little boy,” Saint sneers. “And that’s a promise.”

“You’re both fucking twisted!” Dimitri lashes out. “She’s your sister.”

Uncharacteristically, it's Saint who acts on impulse, seizing Dimitri by the throat and leaning in close to whisper with a dangerous undertone. “Watch your mouth, Dimitri .”

“Or what?”

“Or I’ll make sure to savour every moment while I extract your heart from your chest cavity.”

Surprisingly, Dimitri stutters and stumbles out of Saint’s grip before making a hasty retreat.

“He’s going to be an issue,” Saint whispers.

“I know.”

“And?”

“I’ll take care of it,” I assure him. “His mouth will never utter a word again.”