Текст книги "Vicious secrets"
Автор книги: Morgan Bridges
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Текущая страница: 18 (всего у книги 18 страниц)
Chapter 55XAVIER
Idress quickly. Each piece of clothing feels like armor, a barrier against the uncertainty of what’s to come. The Order calls, you answer. You just don’t know what you’ve agreed to.
After checking the monitor next to the door, I open it. The crow waiting for me on the other side nods once. “It’s time.”
I resist the urge to look back at Delilah one more time. I can’t risk it. No one can know what she means to me, and a single glance could give me away.
I step into the hallway and shut the door. It locks with a soft click and I take solace in the fact that Delilah’s safe. As we walk through the quiet halls of the dormitory, my thoughts are with her. I make myself suppress the memories of her, along with the feelings she evokes.
If I’m to pass whatever test lies before me, I can’t be distracted.
The chill of the early morning air pricks my skin as we ascend the winding staircase to the roof of the castle. The stone beneath is smooth, its texture refined by countless soldiers climbing these very steps in preparation for battle. We emerge at the top, and the expanse of the night sky greets me, the moon hanging overhead like a silent witness, providing the only light available.
The roof itself is a large, flat space, designed with functionality in mind instead of aesthetics. Battlements rise like teeth against the skyline, offering protection and a panoramic view of the surrounding area. This high up, the air is crisper, carrying the scent of pine and oak. Below, the castle walls stretch out like a maze of stone and shadow, a fortress guarding its secrets.
And the Obsidian Order.
In a straight line are the ten leaders. They wear their ceremonial black robes and masks, as well as silence. Like their clothing, it’s meant to create mystery and unease.
I catch my father’s eye, but it’s only for a moment. He said they’d be watching, and he was right. The atmosphere is thick with tension, the quiet only disturbed by my arrival and the occasional shuffle of feet or the soft rustle of fabric.
Everyone’s attention is on the platform in the middle of the rooftop. My adrenaline kicks up a notch at the sight. It’s reminiscent of a gallows, constructed from wood, now weathered and aged. It rises a few feet from the ground, supported by sturdy beams that ensure its stability.
It’s a fucking stage.
An ominous presence lingers in the air, combining with the anticipation of the men nearby. In the center of this platform is a wooden board. It’s fashioned from tight-grain wood, mounted to a stand and positioned at an optimal height for knife-throwing practice.
Then there’s the blood, fresh and wet, still traveling along the wood in rivulets that look black in the night.
I scan the area, my veins icing over at the tarp-covered bodies scattered about. Three of them to be exact. My guess is they’re recruits who failed to pass the test.
That won’t be me.
One of the leaders, Leonard Gage, ruler of the drug empire, raises his hand. My father goes taut beside him, but I keep my gaze on my rival’s predecessor.
“Xavier Donovan,” he says, “you stand before us at the threshold of your first Trial. This is not merely a test of skill, but a measure of your resolve, your dedication to the principles that bind this Order together.”
The group of them nod, their minute movements reflecting the solemnity of this event. Gage gestures toward the wooden target. “This right of passage will transform you from recruit to crow, from soldier to leader. You are granted but a single attempt. The knife you throw must not only reach the target, but it must imbed itself in the wood, a symbol of your deep commitment to this brotherhood. Miss and you fail. If the knife doesn’t remain secure in the wood, and falls to the ground, you fail. Succeed, and you affirm your spot in the remaining Trials.”
He retrieves a knife from his cloak and hands it to me. I take it, familiarizing the weight of it before I run out of time. My focus narrows, but he interrupts my concentration with a simple wave of the hand.
“Hold. Your target arrives.”
I look from the wooden target to the woman being dragged onto the rooftop. Delilah’s blindfolded, her movements hindered by restraints, and a gag stifles any protest she might have. The moon bathes her in an ethereal glow, her bridal gown bright in the darkness.
Inside, I’m an accumulation of fury, rage, and wrath all combined into one tempest threatening to combust. Outside, I remain stoic, my expression bored. The leaders watch me, their gazes scrutinizing behind their masks.
This isn’t merely a test of skill. It’s one of loyalty.
The sick and twisted pieces connect to form a clear picture of what’s expected of me. They’re searching for a reaction to me seeing her vulnerable. And harmed.
The wooden platform is now something sinister, a stage that’s become an altar. One I must sacrifice her on. Even at a distance, her confusion and fear are heavy, her body tense.
A crow shoves her against the board, wetting her skin with blood and staining her dress with red. They rip the blindfold from her eyes and the gag from her mouth.
“Xavier!”
Hearing the longing in her voice nearly fucking breaks me. The visceral reaction within me has my skin vibrating. My hands shake as I fiddle with the knife, disguising my fury by tossing the weapon casually.
“Don’t move, bride,” I say.
Delilah freezes, but her gaze zips back and forth, her pupils expanding with fear. The instant her eyes land on the bodies nearby, she straightens, her spine so rigid it might snap.
I stand there, my gaze fixed on her with a detached expression completely at odds with the emotions inside me. The ones brought to life because of her. She’s my weakness. My little raptor.
“Stand up straight,” I say. “Hold completely still.”
Her inner fire warms the coldness of her fear, the sparks flaring in her eyes. “Why?”
“Because I fucking said so, bride.”
Without moving, I flick my gaze to the body nearest to her. Now, I wonder if they’re targets who tried to flee instead of dead recruits. Delilah tracks my eye movement and returns her attention to me with the barest of nods. Pride washes over me at the sight of her lifting her chin and pressing her back flush to the wood behind her. She balls her fists at her sides, keeping her arms straight.
Delilah stares at me and nowhere else, as if tethered to me body, mind, and soul. Her absolute trust nearly brings me to my knees.
After this, I’m going to lose it. And any hope of her loving me.
I raise the knife, knowing I only have one chance to get this right. The years of practice flood my memory and strengthen my grip. I focus on her abdomen, specifically the area void of vital organs, near the outer edge. There’s less risk of permanent damage.
And death.
I can’t hesitate or I won’t put enough power behind the throw and immediately fail. I’m confident in my skill, but, fuck, am I reluctant.
If I don’t hurt her, they’ll know I love her.
And she’ll be killed.
Breathe. Aim. Release.
Delilah’s scream rings out, along with the thud of the knife striking wood. I fist my hands to refrain from going to her as blood spreads from the wound, covering her dress. She lifts a hand, her flingers fluttering over the knife’s handle as she stares at it with disbelief.
Then she whispers my name.
It’s a broken sob, one that guts me where I stand.
After a lifetime of torture, nothing has ever wounded me more than the look of betrayal in Delilah’s eyes.
The story continues…
Vicious Society
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AppendixTHE FOUNDING FAMILIES
Donovan – Weapons
McKenzie – Technology
Ames – Media & Pornography
Gage – Narcotics
Kent – Medical
Shipley – Real Estate
Felton – Finance & Banking
Emerson – Human Trafficking
Paine – Natural Resources
Barnum – Oil & Energy Sources
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Once You’re Mine
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POSSESSING HER BOOK 1
Hayden
I killed him.
The senator isn’t the first, and he won’t be the last. There’s a satisfaction in this, yet it’s fleeting, similar to a flame that’s quickly put out. Dead and gone.
Like my victims.
Justice is a mistress that calls my name and pulls me into her embrace to fuck me. And leave me bereft. Empty. Wanting a closure I’ll never possess.
Rain falls in a light but steady stream, landing on every surface in the cemetery.
The grass.
The gravestones.
The faces of the mourners.
Precipitation collides with tears to stream down the cheeks of those viewing the casket. Sorrow is everywhere, permeating the atmosphere like a dense fog. I let it cover me, envelop me, bring me peace. It’s rare to feel this serenity. The funerals of my victims are one of the few places I experience this, which is why I always attend.
To complete the ritual…
End a life.
Give justice.
Begin again.
I sweep my gaze over the attendees, a sea of black amongst the green backdrop, an ink stain on an emerald field. They congregate, huddling together to provide and receive comfort, some weeping quietly while others sniffle loudly. All of them broken.
Except for one.
The very person who should be shattered stands tall. But not for lack of caring. No, she loves the deceased. Deeply. Each of her breaths is a challenge as if she’s being strangled, and she winces in pain every time her hazel eyes land on the mahogany casket.
Without a display of tears.
Not yet. But they all do eventually. Another part of the ritual I enjoy.
Although, I still can’t understand why people mourn evil. They should be relieved there’s one less murderous individual in the world. One less man who preys upon innocent women and children. I suspect it’s because they’re not aware of the vile acts their loved ones committed. If they did, they’d express fear, not sadness.
Calista Green is exquisite in her melancholy.
This woman is the perfect example of what a politician’s daughter should look like. Pristine and pressed clothes, flawless makeup, and her long, dark hair curled and piled atop her head in a way that accentuates the beautiful slope of her neck. What really sells the image is the string of pearls she wears, the ones she occasionally runs her fingers over to soothe herself.
As the only living relative, she’s my focus. Not because the woman’s young and attractive, although you’d have to be dead not to notice. Grave humor from me. How rare… and amusing.
Regardless of her beauty, Miss Green is the one I watch with bated breath, my chest rising and falling in time with hers, my body leaning forward whenever she moves. She’s the one I’m connected to at the moment.
There's poetry, a sharp irony in taking the life of the man who’s responsible for the vitality flowing through her veins. Making her heart beat. The subtle flickering of her pulse along her throat snatching my attention again and again.
Most women are delicate, in need of protection. But only in the physical sense. Emotionally, they are more intelligent, more in tune with the feelings that tend to dominate their lives.
The same ones I’ve destroyed within myself.
Specifically, the soft, tender ones: adoration and compassion. Whether that’s caring for another, or even love. Whatever the name, they lead to weakness. Which results in pain and suffering.
And the arrival of darker emotions.
These are the ones in which I indulge, the ones that dictate my actions and fuel my ambition. Frustration. Anger. Disgust. Even desire, if it’s through selfish acts; the gratification of it, both mentally and physically.
These things I understand and control, lest they take over me—as they try to do on occasion.
I’m not a perfect man. Only my intentions are.
The pastor asks everyone to bow their heads in prayer and they do. Except for me. And her.
Miss Green simply stares ahead, unblinking, her gaze sparkling with thought, her eyes becoming crystalized honey. I continue watching her. Scrutinizing her. The longer I do, the more piqued my interest becomes.
What is she thinking about?
And where the hell are the tears?
The petition to an unseen deity ends, and everyone lifts their heads. A middle-aged woman, the former manager for the Green household, covers her face with both hands. Her round frame shakes from the force of her sobs. Real or fabricated, I’m unsure.
Miss Green doesn’t stop to question the authenticity of the tears. The young woman immediately embraces the older one, her full, pink lips whispering words of comfort while patting the housekeeper until the woman gathers her composure.
The pastor gestures to the casket, proposing everyone say their good-byes. The first man to walk over is the family’s driver. He takes his cap in hand and bows his head. His mouth moves briefly, clearly a man of few words, and then he’s stepping back.
Before he can blend in with the crowd, the senator’s daughter walks up to him and takes his hand. She gives the man a smile—a sad one, but a smile nonetheless—and says something that has the driver’s shoulders straightening with pride. The interaction between them is familiar, comfortable.
I squint, not bothering to hide my skepticism. No one can see me at this distance, but I find myself wanting to get closer. It goes against my rules to get near my victim’s loved ones, so I don’t. However, rules don’t stifle my want. My need to examine things more in depth in order to gain understanding.
Miss Green perplexes me.
She is the person most devastated by the senator’s death, yet she’s the one offering comfort instead of receiving it. And not just to anyone, but the staff. People she shouldn’t acknowledge unless it’s with a task for them to carry out.
I’ve met many men and women who come from the upper class, and none of them have a personal relationship with those on their payroll. They believe it’s beneath them. A financial division that’s been around since money and status became prominent in human culture.
But not to Miss Green.
She treats each individual like a person of worth.
It’s confounding… and refreshing. If it’s real.
I don’t believe her to be sincere. A funeral is the perfect excuse for a woman to gain sympathy and attention. For her to shine in the spotlight and be adored for simply being. Perhaps this is why she hasn’t cried yet.
Miss Green is preparing her stage.
That is something I understand and have witnessed on numerous occasions. She’ll be no different than the others. Just like she wears those pearls, she’ll wear selfishness disguised as grief.
So, I wait.
My anticipation grows with every person who walks up to the casket. They leave shortly after, but not without the dutiful daughter greeting them farewell, a lily in her hand that she clutches like a lifeline. The rain falls harder and faster, scattering the mourners like a flock of ravens, the group quickly disappearing.
Until one person remains.
Miss Green stands there, a stoic expression etched in her features. Her hair, drenched by the rain, drips water onto her already soaked clothing. She doesn’t move for a long while, despite the storm, despite the lack of audience.
Her continued stillness draws me, pulls me toward her. I adjust the collar of my coat to shield my face and gradually make my way in her direction. To a passerby I look like someone visiting the deceased. On any other day, that would be true.
I have mourned.
Once.
My steps bring me close enough to see the woman’s bottom lip trembling, now tinged with blue due to the cold. Miss Green wraps her arms around her middle, flower still in hand, and sinks to the ground with a small cry of anguish.
Finally, the tears come.
She tilts her head back, her pale throat an offering, making my fingers twitch. Eyes shut and lips parted, the woman sobs. I don’t possess empathy, but if I did, I’d be gutted at hearing such a forlorn sound.
Even so, there's a strange tightness in my chest.
It intensifies the longer she cries, the more tears she sheds.
There is no audience, no performance to be had. Just a daughter mourning the loss of her parent. In private.
Miss Green waited until she was alone to properly grieve, a revelation I didn’t see coming. Her behavior is a deviation from the norm.
Disappointment surges along with confusion, and my brows furrow. For the first time, the joy I receive from funerals has vanished.
My satisfaction has been thwarted.
And replaced with an uncomfortable sensation that I refuse to name. Something I shouldn’t be capable of.
It’s there nonetheless.
Miss Green is the cause of this.
I run my gaze over the woman as she gets to her feet and slowly makes her way to the casket, grass and mud stains on her clothes and legs. Her perfect image is no more. The lily in her right hand shakes from the tremors wracking her body, dislodging raindrops that are quickly replaced by the storm. And her tears.
She brokenly whispers something I can’t make out and kisses the flower’s petals before placing it on the mahogany surface amongst the other blooms. Then she walks to the vehicle idling by the curb. I watch until she climbs inside and disappears from sight.
Then I head toward the casket. Peering down, I squint in disdain at the man hidden within, my lip curling. “You caused pain before and after your death. If I could kill you again, I would.”
Reaching out, I trail my fingers over the lily that Miss Green held so tightly, the soft texture how I imagine her skin would feel. I pick it up and press my lips to the petal where she did moments ago, inhaling deep. The fragrance of the bloom fills my nostrils, along with the scent of the woman who now invades my thoughts.
She’s a mystery
A problem.
One that I intend to solve and be rid of. No matter the cost. Or else the price I’ll pay will be my sanity—what little still remains.
Once You’re Mine
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Morgan Bridges
A lover of anti-heroes, deep and thought-provoking books with beautifully written words, romance that's sigh-worthy, scenes that are so hot she blushes, and heroines that inspire her to the point Morgan wants to take their place.
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authormbridges@gmail.com
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