Текст книги "Vicious secrets"
Автор книги: Morgan Bridges
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Текущая страница: 2 (всего у книги 18 страниц)
Chapter 4XAVIER
The crisp morning air rushes past my body, tugging at my clothing like a needy girlfriend. My motorcycle hums louder when I twist the throttle. I rush down the freeway going faster than is advised and not giving a fuck. This is one of the few times I’m in complete control of my life.
Too soon, the large gates of my father’s mansion come into view, forcing me to slow down. And shift my mind back to reality. The wrought-iron gate slowly swings open, and I ride through, dreading this encounter.
My father summoned me, and I have no choice but to answer if I want to keep breathing. Some of the founding families see their sons as a means to a legacy, a continuation of a powerful dynasty. Edward Donovan only cares about his empire.
Unfortunately, that makes me a soldier in his fucked-up army.
I park my motorcycle in the courtyard and cut the engine. It dies, like I wish my father would.
After removing my helmet and setting it on the seat, I run my fingers through my dark hair and take a deep breath. Fortifying myself.
Speaking with my father is like entering a battlefield; I have to be armed.
The mansion looms, growing more imposing the closer I get. I walk through the front doors, the marble underneath my boots and the grand ceiling overhead familiar. I’ve walked these halls all my life, but this will never be my home.
I make my way through the hallways, passing the portraits of ancestors dating back to before the Revolutionary War. People who have long since passed, but had a hand in creating this country. And the Obsidian Order.
Another army I’m going to be a part of. Like with my father’s, I’m being drafted.
In this place, behind enemy lines, my senses are heightened. I can’t remember a time I wasn’t aware of my surroundings and the people inside them. If that type of vulnerability ever existed in me, it was erased the moment my father hit me. Or when my mother stood there and watched.
I turn the corner and she stands there as if conjured by my thoughts. My mother paints an elegant picture, beautiful and stately, like an expensive piece of art only to be admired from afar. Or a statue, hard and cold, unable to show affection.
Or offer protection.
“Xavier,” she says with a small incline of her head.
I come to a halt, keeping my expression blank. “Mother.”
Her icy blue gaze probs mine before drifting away. I’d suspect it was guilt that keeps her from looking at me for very long if I thought she cared about me in any capacity. But I know better.
“How are you?” she asks, her voice carrying a practiced formality.
“I’m fine.”
I don’t bother to ask how she’s doing. Unlike her, I don’t waste my time with pleasantries that mean nothing. There was a time when I would’ve begged for a kind word from my mother, but her allegiance lies with my father. It always has, and it always will.
However, it’s a devotion born from fear and danger, not love and respect. Not the way Delilah is loyal to Benjamin. I’d do fucking anything to have her feel that way about me.
My mother delicately clears her throat. “Your father is expecting you.”
This statement defines our relationship. If you can even call it that. She maintains an air of detachment like a cloak, draping herself in it to remain emotionally hidden and unscathed.
From my father? Certainly.
From me? Possibly.
“I know,” I say.
“Very well.”
I give her a curt nod and start walking. No other words need to be said. The opportunity for real conversation died the day she abandoned me.
I reach the espresso-colored doors of my father’s study and stop. A quick knock grants me permission to enter, and I step into hell.
Also known as my father’s sanctum.
Closing the doors behind me, I fully enter the room. The grandeur of this place rivals a king’s court. The air is thick with aged leather, polished wood, and the faint scent of cigars. My father sits behind a massive oak desk, surrounded by shelves filled with books.
“Xavier.” He sets down the papers in his hands and flicks his gaze to me. “I trust that you have something to report about the McKenzie boy?”
Benjamin and I are both eighteen, but this is how my father views me—as a child to be controlled without rebellion.
“He left for South Harbor this morning and should be there by now.”
My father studies me for a moment, his gray eyes scrutinizing. We share the same eye color, but there’s also a coldness, a hardness in his that we both possess. “Getting McKenzie there is only half the battle,” he says. “Keeping him there is going to be more of a problem.”
I remain silent. Every sentence, every word is a strategic move in a game of chess I’ve been forced to play. One wrong choice leads to more than a lost pawn.
“Does he have anything we can use to persuade him to fall in line?” he asks.
Delilah.
Her face appears in my mind, her green eyes sparkling with emotion and her lips tilted in a smile. For an instant, I forget myself and my surroundings, and the threat directly in front of me.
The very thought of her ruins me.
My chest tightens, and I steel my facial expression, keeping it impassive. I force myself to erase all memory of Delilah in this moment with practiced mental discipline learned from years of self-preservation. Anything good in my life is considered a threat to my father. And he’ll eliminate it.
Or worse, force me to do so.
“Keeping him in line won’t be a problem,” I say, choosing my words with care. “He has nothing holding him back.”
“So, no girlfriend?”
I don’t know if they’re together, but it doesn’t matter. They won’t stay that way. I may not be able to kill Benjamin to keep him from Delilah. However, there are other ways to accomplish that.
As far as any other man… I have no restrictions.
When my father forced me to learn various forms of self-defense along with fighting techniques, I’m certain he didn’t think I’d use them for a girl. To be fair, neither did I. Delilah is the one thing in my life I didn’t see coming.
But I can’t unsee her.
And I don’t want to.
“After having watched him for several days, I didn’t see any evidence of a relationship,” I say.
“Hmm.” My father strokes his chin in thought. “It doesn’t matter. There are other ways to keep people in line. Stay close to him and figure out what his weaknesses are and how to exploit them. Obtaining leverage on the McKenzie heir is your sole purpose now.”
I nod. “I understand.”
“I hope so.”
“Anything else?” I ask, ignoring the insult. “I have to be on campus for the pledging ceremony.”
My father leans back in his chair. “That’s just for show. The real initiation will begin soon, recruit.”
I’m no longer talking to Edward Donovan. Before me sits one of the three council members of the Obsidian Order. A guild of assassins.
“The Order.”
“The Order,” he repeats with emphasis. “We’re sworn to secrecy, but I have prepared you for this moment your entire life.”
His words echo with a history of family traditions, a legacy built on manipulation, violence, and power. I stare at the man I closely resemble, unable to escape my destiny any more than I can change my DNA. My birth was for this very purpose: to serve a secret society that I know almost nothing about but must dedicate my life to.
Until death.
More binding than a marriage, and more demanding as well.
His gaze sharpens, the gray like honed steel. “Don’t embarrass me, son.”
I give him a curt nod. The gravity of an unknown situation, weighed down with expectations, wraps around my neck like a noose. The impending danger causes it to tighten, as does my father’s silent warning.
“You’re dismissed,” he says. “But I’ll be watching, Xavier. They all will.”
Ten founding families. Hundreds of years of history. Thousands of members that have gone before me.
And one girl who makes my life worth living.
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Chapter 5XAVIER
Freshman Year at South Harbor University
A few weeks later...
Mors solum initium.
Death is only the beginning.
The ancient words resonate in my mind, in both languages. They dig into my psyche like an ax to wood, slowly chipping away at my calm demeanor. I knew this day would come, but it won’t be my last on this earth.
It could be for a weaker man.
Someone rips off the hood covering my head, leaving me to blink away the darkness. My vision is slow to adjust, but my instincts are fired up, ready to push me into action. To kill.
I’d bet my inheritance that’s why the league of assassins brought me here.
I’m quick to scan my surroundings, taking note of the others. My competitors. The men who will either be my brothers-in-arms or the ones who will attack me.
The setting for our initiation is a castle dungeon, a structure that’s probably older than the Obsidian Order itself. The air is thick with the scents of dirt, stone, and fear. A flickering torch along the wall provides light for us to see, but the space is still dark enough to create an ominous atmosphere.
The cold, unforgiving floor underneath me slowly drains my body’s warmth, just as the chains around my wrists and ankles clinking together siphon my patience. The sensation of being bound, of being another’s prisoner has memories clawing my mind, drawing metaphorical blood.
I’m more than ready to draw actual blood, if only to repress the dark images trying to emerge.
I run my gaze over the twelve other men sharing my predicament. All of them are like me, sons from one of the ten founding families. All of us were born for this purpose.
Except one.
The newcomer’s brow is furrowed with the standard “what the fuck” expression. He doesn’t bother to hide his shock or his frustration at being shackled. But he should. Giving anyone insight into your thoughts puts you at a disadvantage.
He’ll learn soon enough… or he’ll die.
A man stands in the middle of the room with his arms crossed, a pile of black hoods resting at his feet. If Mark Barnum could get away with it, he’d have a pile of corpses next to him instead. I don’t know anyone more ruthless than him, someone willing to do whatever it takes to survive.
Except me.
“Listen up, recruits.” Mark’s voice rings out, instantly silencing the mutterings of those around him. I summon my inner fortitude, the one that has kept me alive through a lifetime of torture. Both physical and mental. There’s nothing he can say that I can’t handle.
Mark grins. “You assholes aren’t getting out of here until someone dies.”
This immediately goes from being a dungeon to an arena. Blood will be spilled. It just won’t be mine.
From the corner of my eye, I watch the newcomer’s reaction. The young man runs a hand through his blonde hair, rattling his chains, and bringing everyone’s attention to him. Poor bastard just made himself a target.
The rest of us have been trained for this. Bred for this. Joining the Obsidian Order as an elite assassin is akin to serving our family. It’s an honor.
One that’s not allowed to be refused.
“To make things interesting,” Mark says, drawing out the word, “I’ve provided an incentive.” He removes three knives from the back pocket of his jeans and places them by his feet. “Mors solum initium, motherfuckers.”
The second he walks from the room and locks the cell door behind him, there’s a flurry of activity as everyone rushes to grab one of the weapons. The sound of chains colliding is only superseded by the shouts of profanity.
I keep my focus on the clusterfuck in the middle of the floor while slowly getting to my feet. Adrenaline unfurls inside me, familiar and potent, sweeping through my limbs and preparing me for battle.
I don’t need a blade to kill someone.
A shout of pain echoes in the space as Eric Gage slashes someone with his newly acquired weapon.
Ryan Emerson clutches his stomach, pain etched into his features, a red stain creeping along the expensive material of his shirt. The metallic scent of blood mixes with the smell of dirt as it floats in the air.
“Is that all you’ve got, Eric?” Ryan spits on the ground. “Looks like you’ve spending more time getting high than actually learning to fight. It’s fucked with your brain cells, and you didn’t have many to start with.”
“I’ll show you fucked up.” Eric smirks, but the flash of anger in his eyes undermines his taunt. “And when I’m done, I’ll show your girlfriend too.”
Eric slashes at Ryan in a downward arc, but he dodges the attack easily, using Eric’s momentum to plant a heel behind his knee. Eric falters. He staggers back, nearly avoiding Ryan’s follow-up strike. Even wounded, the heir to the Emerson fortune is a formidable challenger.
From the far end of the cell, I track their movements as well as those around me. The attention of everyone present is centered on the fight. I’m sure most of them hope Ryan will take Eric’s life and save them the risk of dying or the responsibility of having to kill someone.
At least for today.
The time will come for all of them.
When being inducted into an assassin’s guild, murder is par for the course. Our fathers and uncles have all undergone this rite of passage, but with it being a secret society, its operations must remain hidden. That didn’t stop my father from preparing me every day of my life. This isn’t my first time in a cell.
Or being ordered to kill someone.
Out of everyone, Eric has always been the most volatile. Every child born to the founding families attended the same prestigious schools and elite social events, so his behavior isn’t shocking to me. In fact, there are few things in my life that have ever surprised me.
The most memorable one is a girl with green eyes, honey-colored hair, and a knife in her hand. The last time someone pulled a weapon on me, it was her. I smile briefly at the image.
I’m quick to dismiss thoughts of Delilah. It’s not an easy task, but with the threat of death a few feet away, my brain complies. For once. She’s been on my mind since the moment I first saw her.
Eric rights himself, chest heaving and his blonde hair falling across his forehead. Even from across the room, I’m able to pinpoint the exact moment he calculates the odds of winning this fight with Ryan. There’s an infinitesimal widening of his eyes that gives him away.
“At least I have a warm pussy waiting for me,” Ryan says with a grin. He laughs harshly, though sweat dots his forehead and darkens the roots of his hair. “The only thing waiting for you is a syringe. Hard to fuck, but not impossible I guess.”
Hushed laughter floats into the air, immediately stifled by coughs filled with unease.
A flush crawls up the sides of Eric’s neck, his rage palpable. For a second, my mask of indifference slips at the idea of Eric being stupid enough to continue the fight with Ryan when he’s clearly outmatched. However, Eric’s arrogance finally comes to terms with what his instincts know to be true: he won’t win.
“Fuck off,” he snarls. “My father is one of three council members, and I’ll take his place someday. My drug empire brings in more money and power than yours can ever dream of. You’ll need that girlfriend of yours to suck your dick hard enough to make you forget that reality.”
Eric whirls around, chains clinking, his hungry gaze scanning the room for another opponent. Correction: a victim.
My muscles tighten the second his attention lands on the newcomer, but I maintain my expression of boredom. No one knows about my orders, not even my target.
Benjamin McKenzie remains hunched in the corner, his eyes darting back and forth until they settle on Eric. Alarm flickers over his countenance and he takes up a defensive stance, balling his fists. Despite his ability to fight, it won’t be enough. Even if he had one of the knives, his chances would be slim.
Eric’s mouth tilts in a brutal smile as he makes his way toward the newcomer. “Where the fuck did you come from, pretty boy?” He stops a few feet from Benjamin, his gaze scrutinizing and critical. “You’re not one of us, so how’d you get here?”
Benjamin remains silent. With the seconds ticking away, and his death imminent without my interference, I shift my gaze to Declan Kent. The heir to the medical dynasty catches my eye and lifts a brow in question. I jerk my chin at the knife in his hand.
It’s a lot to ask for in this situation. If there was ever a time to test the trust between Declan and me, it’s now. The only other person who carries a weapon is Simon Paine, and my chances of getting it from him without sustaining an injury are dicey at best.
Declan gives me a pointed look, and I return it, an understanding passing between us. I’ve never considered him a friend, but after today, I will. And I’ll owe him.
He hands me the knife, his forehead wrinkled with resignation. I take it from him and hold the weapon by the tip of the blade. The weight of it is lighter than I’m used to wielding, and I adjust my grip accordingly.
“Any last words?” Eric lifts his arm, the firelight from the torch reflecting off the steel, gleaming menacingly. At Benjamin’s continued silence, Eric rolls his eyes. “You can refuse to talk, but you won’t be able to stop yourself from screaming.”
Desperation and anticipation light up Benjamin’s gaze and amplify the tension lining his shoulders. And his inexperience. Eric, however, moves with a fluidity that speaks of training cultivated from years of practice. Some of it forced, but most of it for the pleasure of causing another’s suffering.
He tosses the knife from one hand to the other, toying with his opponent. “This’ll be fun.”
Eric feints left and the newcomer scrambles back, further putting himself at a disadvantage with no room to escape.
I move before Eric does. With sharp precision and deadly force, I hurl the blade straight at Eric’s exposed side. It strikes home with a gratifying impact, piercing flesh and tendon.
A scream fills the room, but it’s not Benjamin’s.
Eric removes the blade with a low grunt and whirls in my direction, his knives carving through the air while he searches for his attacker. The copper scent of fresh blood blooms pungent. His fury seeps from his body quicker than his blood.
“What the fuck, X?”
I shrug. “Just trying to keep things interesting.”
In my peripheral vision, I catch Benjamin studying me, his hands shaking. My fighter’s instincts chafe at having limited mobility because of the chains on my wrists. Fighting Eric without any weapons is going to be a challenge, but the McKenzie heir must live.
Eric starts walking in my direction, and Declan takes a step closer to me. The show of solidarity gives Eric pause. His surprise at Declan’s loyalty is obliterated when Simon launches himself at Eric.
From a strategic perspective, I understand Simon’s choice. Eric has no allies, and with him being wounded, he’s vulnerable. But that doesn’t mean he’s weak.
Eric twists away from Simon’s charge with a viper’s swiftness and deflects the blow by drawing his blade across his body. The screech of steel has me clenching my teeth. The fighters are oblivious, the grating sound falling on deaf ears.
Circling his opponent, Simon grins maniacally as some of the spectators begin to toss out insults to both parties, encouraging the escalation of violence. Eric swipes at Simon’s ribs, but the strike doesn’t find its mark.
They trade attacks, each one getting more violent. And desperate. Simon’s physical power contrasts with Eric’s skill. Which one is more valuable?
Chests heaving from exertion, they clash again and again in a flurry of jabs and slashes until more blood is spilled. Simon drives Eric back step by step with sheer force, overwhelming his technical skill set. Their blades scrape violently as each tries to deliver a killing blow.
The room—and its occupants—hold their breath. Eric’s determination to live isn’t to be underestimated, but the chances of him outlasting his attacker’s onslaught is nil.
With an enraged bellow, Simon throws his entire weight behind a powerful strike. Eric sidesteps at the last second and brings one of his knives upward in a vicious scything motion.
Simon gasps, the wet sound cut short as a red line appears on his throat like a red smile across his skin. Blood pours from the wound and lands onto the ground.
Right before his body does.
Declan dismisses him with a shrug, and I do the same. Death is a part of this life.
Benjamin stands with a watchful eye, having never moved to help or hinder Simon’s death. Or Eric’s. Throughout the fight, there was a ceaseless vigilance in the set of Benjamin’s jaw and the stiffening of his spine. He’ll need more of that.
I look from Simon’s body and over to his cousin, Alaric Paine. “Looks like you just got promoted,” I say.
Then there were twelve recruits.
Delilah: Dude, this new foster home is amazing! Emily and Sandra have their own rooms! Can you believe it? Sandra still crawls into Emily’s bed every night. I think it makes the girls feel secure and I don’t blame them. This is a whole new environment with new schools and everything.
Ben: That’s great. I’ll come down after my first exam to check things out.
Delilah: Can’t wait to see you! How’s that fancy college of yours? Everything you dreamed of?
Ben: Haha yeah.
Delilah: Cool. Well, I’ve got to run. Xoxo
Ben: Oxox
Delilah: Pigpig
Ben: You’re so weird.
Delilah: Yup 😊
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