The underground cathedral space that houses the Court burns with candlelight. Shadows flicker long and jagged across marble floors. Sin hangs in the air, thick and heavy.
Around me a decadent, orgiastic scene straight out of the decline of the Roman empire plays out.
…Which is exactly what we were going for when we built this organization.
But back then, we were young. Younger, at least. And while I can’t speak for the others, for me personally, some of the allure of those earlier…excesses has faded.
From behind my mask, my eyes drag across the scene in front of me: masked women draped across velvet lounges, dresses slipping low on bare shoulders. Some topless, some wearing even less.
Ten years ago, my cock would have been salivating over this buffet of flesh.
Now? Nothing.
It’s not age that’s done this to me. It’s not that “somewhere along the way I grew up” or “with maturity comes…” whatever bullshit someone wants to pass off as sagely wisdom.
It’s that someone has caught—and held—the attention of my darkness in a way no other woman ever has, no matter how tempting any of them look, laid out like a meal.
There’ve been women before Lyra.
But none has ever come close to captivating the monster inside me like she does. None has even remotely sparked the same obsessive fascination, the almost violent need to pry inside her soul; to dig my fingers into it to see what I find when I sift through.
Part of it, I know, is that I’ve never once explored my darker kinks with anyone the way I have with Lyra.
I’ve chased people, yes. But I’ve chased men, and not for the same reasons I chased her.
I hounded those men for the thrill of the hunt and the anticipation of the kill.
Lyra’s the first one I’ve chased with the anticipation of feeling her pulse thud beneath my fingers. With a burning need to feel her thighs wrapped around my hips as my dick plunges into her greedy cunt while she’s still trying to catch her breath from the flight.
Now, she’s become the only thing I ever want to chase. My favorite obsession.
God help her.
While I’m happy to sit idly by, sipping my wine and watching the hedonism unfold around me, the others aren’t content to be bystanders.
The Bull sprawls on a chaise near the altar, three women draped over him—two blondes and a brunette with deeply tanned skin. Their hands slide over his chest, fingers working at the buttons of his shirt as they giggle playfully beneath their masks.
The Raven is across the room, sitting with another woman, his body angled to her, his hand lazily tracing the stem of his glass. He doesn’t touch her. He doesn’t need to.
She’s already his.
I know how he operates. He’s noticed everything: the way she breathes, the way her pulse flutters at her throat. She won’t even realize what’s happening until she’s caught in his web, tangled in strings she won’t know how to cut.
I sometimes think The Raven might have been better suited for The Order at Knightsblood. He’s precise. Calculating. But in the end, he’s still Para Bellum through and through.
The Stag is hunting. A pretty girl stands before him. He leans in, his voice low and hypnotic as he reaches up and strokes her jaw with a finger. The girl—another blonde, in a black gown and black choker—looks up at him through her mask, clearly hanging on every word.
You fucking idiot.
Whatever she thinks she’s getting into with him, she isn’t ready for it.
Nobody is.
I mean, I’ve got my own darkness, and it runs deep. But The Stag’s?
His darkness is limitless, and there’s no line between play and prey for him.
I take another sip of wine, dragging my gaze over to The Wolf—prowling, of course. I watch as he leads two girls to the entrance of the maze. They follow eagerly, whispering to each other, their laughter breathless.
He’d better remember that it’s almost time for Court to be in session.
I really should be reveling in this excessive world we built with our own hands.
But I’m not, because her voice won’t fucking leave my head.
You’re a monster.
It still echoes, rattling around in my skull. I roll my shoulders, trying to exhale it out, but the weight of it lingers, sinking deeper.
“You look lonely over here.”
I take my time pulling my gaze from The Wolf to the woman standing in front of me: dark black hair, porcelain skin, ruby red lips, and a dress that looks like I could take one look at it and it’d be pooling at her ankles.
She’s got long legs, too.
Good for running.
A scowl curdles behind my mask.
“What I look like, if you’re actually bothering to look,” I growl witheringly, “is uninterested.”
She fucking stays where she is, cocking her hip and making what I’m sure she thinks is a coy expression.
It’s not. It’s fucking irritating, and it’s only getting worse by the second.
“I would move, if I were you,” I mutter.
She grins, sliding toward me, looking like she’s about to climb into my lap.
Yeah, no.
Immediately, I’m grabbing her wrist, lurching to my feet, and shoving her away.
“Away,” I snarl. “If I were you, I would move away from me.”
‘I—sorry,’ she stammers, all the coyness gone from her face as she stumbles back, spilling some of her champagne and scurrying back to her friends across the room near the bar.
Good. Fucking stay there.
I can feel many eyes on me as I sink back into my seat. Moments later, I see The Bull disentangle himself from the women fawning over him. He stands, shaking his head at them as he halfway buttons his shirt and moves my way. The Stag also leaves the girl he was talking to, joining The Bull as he comes to a stop in front of me.
“You’re in a wonderful mood,” The Bull says.
I say nothing, rolling my shoulders.
The Stag watches me. “Is this about Nikolayev threatening to test boundaries—”
I exhale sharply. “Let him test all he wants. He won’t like the results. Look, I’m here. That’s enough, isn’t it.”
Such a lie. My attention keeps drifting to the tempting weight of my phone in my pocket.
I tell myself not to look.
You’re a monster.
How do you live with yourself?
Quite fucking well, thank you.
I have no regrets. No ghosts haunting me of anyone whose last seconds of life were spent looking in horror into my eyes. No nightmares.
I lose no sleep.
That is how I ‘live with myself’. Or at least, how I used to. It’s not like Lyra entering my world has suddenly given me a conscience, or the capacity to feel remorse or anything else I’m completely deficient in.
But she has made me almost wish I could have those things.
Maybe she wouldn’t think I was such a fucking monster if I could feel bad for the things I’ve done.
I exhale as I stand abruptly. “We should start. Someone get The Wolf before he disappears into the maze with those two.”
The Bull nods, turning to stride over to where The Wolf has an arm around each of the girls.
The Stag stays. His eyes, shrouded in shadow behind his mask, bore into me. His head tips slightly to the side, assessing me.
“Did she see more of you than you wanted her to?”
I frown. I know who he’s talking about. The words hit their mark, uncomfortably precise. I grind my teeth, looking away.
“More than she should have.”
The Stag is quiet for a beat.
“What’s that like?”
It’s not a taunt. Not idle curiosity, either. He’s genuinely asking—because he doesn’t know. Whatever I’m feeling, he never has.
My jaw is tight, but the words still slip out before I can stop them. “It’s terrifying.” My voice drops lower. “It’s fucking terrifying.”
The Stag nods slowly, weighing my answer, filing it away, cataloging me the same way he does everyone else.
Then, without another word, he turns and disappears into the crowd to round up the others, leaving me standing there with my words still burning in my throat.
I pull my phone from my pocket, thumbing the screen until I bring up the security feed I had installed at Zakharova Ballet. The rehearsal hall flickers into view.
Something snarls inside of me.
Lyra is alone.
She moves in front of the mirror, her body bending and stretching fluidly, effortlessly.
I watch the way she commands the space around her without trying. The way she breathes life into an empty room, the way she makes the darkness inside me tighten, coil, demand.
She doesn’t just call to my monster. She feeds him.
She forces me to confront how deep my darkness runs. How much I like it. How closely I embrace it.
That’s never bothered me before.
It does now.
Suddenly, over the soft music playing and the laughter of the guests around us, a sound rings out.
A single piano note.
I glance over to where The Raven is standing by the grand piano, his finger on the F sharp above middle C.
It’s time.
The indulgence, the hedonism—both vanish in an instant. Lust and pleasure have no place here now.
Court is in session.
The five of us step onto the raised dais, our seats towering over the room like thrones. The crowd falls silent, even the women who were draped over laps whispering into waiting ears moments ago, and takes their places on the benches in front of us, eyes forward, waiting.
An eerie hush settles over the underground cathedral. Then the doors open.
Two masked guards drag in the prisoner: Florian Berisha, a captain in the New York Albanian mafia.
His face is bloodied, his wrists bound in front of him. His chest rises and falls unevenly, but it’s not fear that flickers in his eyes. It’s defiance. He knows what we do here.
At least he had the sense to try and make a run for it after he got his Black Court summons—though clearly, that didn’t work out.
The Wolf speaks first, his voice laced with a thirst for violence and maybe even a bit of glee.
“Florian Berisha. You’ve been summoned to appear before this court for treason against your king. You betrayed Arian Kirakosian and sold information to the Colombian Cartel, thereby putting men you swore loyalty to in the ground.”
The Albanian spits blood onto the marble floor. “Just business,” he sneers. “And what the fuck authority do you have in this matter? I demand to speak to Arian!” he roars. “He and I will discuss this like men, not this…” His lip curls. “Freak show.”
Terrible choice of words, Florian.
Few things get under Wolf’s skin. But being called a freak, or a monster, or maniac are on that list.
“Say that again,” The Wolf growls quietly in a measured, lethal tone.
Florian has the brains to shut the fuck up, even in his furious state.
“You’re here,” I say icily, “not simply because you broke rank, but because you broke a blood oath you swore to your king. Yes, we could have brought this to Arian’s attention first, and let him deal with you…”
My shoulders bunch as I grip the edge of the table in front of us and lean forward, leering down into Florian’s face.
“But where’s. The fun. In that.”
A nervous titter of laughter ripples through the crowd. Florian’s throat works as he swallows.
The Wolf clears his throat. “Verdicts.”
“Guilty,” The Raven says immediately.
“Guilty,” The Wolf echoes, his voice a low growl.
“Guilty,” The Stag murmurs, tilting his head, perhaps already picturing the man’s last moments.
“Fuckin’ guilty,” The Bull grunts.
I don’t hesitate. “Guilty.”
The Wolf dips his chin. “You get a choice. Fight or flight.”
Florian straightens, rolling his shoulders. “Fight,” he spits defiantly. He doesn’t plead. Men like him always think they can fight their way out. “With fists. Like men.”
Another ripple of amusement from the crowd. They know better.
The Bull stands. It’s his turn. But dark hunger unfurls in my chest, sharp and consuming. The need to remind myself what I am.
“Allow me,” I murmur, turning to him.
The Bull hesitates, his body taut. I can see it in the way his fists clench—he wants this.
But he can tell that I need it even more.
After a beat, he steps back, giving me the kill.
I take my time as I step off the dais and walk forward. My shoes scuff against the stone as I close in on the disgraced captain.
He doesn’t hold back. With a roar, he hurls himself at me, throwing the first punch.
I let it connect.
Pain explodes along my jawbone, snapping my head to the side. Copper floods my mouth.
Good.
This is fucking fuel.
I roll my shoulders, spitting blood onto the floor. Then I lunge at him faster than I’m guessing he ever imagined I could. Our bodies slam to the floor, a brutal tangle of fists and bone. I don’t fight clean. I don’t fight fair.
I fight to fucking destroy.
My knuckles pound into his cheekbone, my other fist driving into his ribs over and over. Something cracks—rib, nose, doesn’t matter.
He chokes, trying to shove me off. But it’s too late.
I slam his head against the stone. His hands claw frantically at my wrists and arms, fighting the inevitable. But I’m stronger.
His breath comes fast, desperate. Mine is even. Steady.
I wrap my hands around his throat almost calmly.
I feel his pulse underneath my fingers. The panicked flutter. I squeeze. His body bucks beneath mine, nails scraping my wrists, feet kicking uselessly on the floor.
I don’t stop. Don’t let go. I want to feel the moment his body surrenders and the fight leaves it. The moment I take his life in my hands and crush it into oblivion.
When it happens, I feel nothing.
The cathedral is pin drop silent as I push to my feet, my hands slick with blood.
I step back, looking down at the man I just ended. I should feel the same satisfaction I’ve felt every time before.
I don’t.
I turn away, my boots echoing against the stone floor as I approach the ancient basin at the side of the cathedral. The water inside ripples faintly in the dim candlelight.
I plunge my hands in, the water turning red as I scrub the blood from my skin, then stare at my reflection in the water after I pull my hands out again.
It’s not her words that bother me.
It’s the fact that for the first time in my life, I care what someone thinks of me.
Behind me, the Court has moved back to the hedonistic party it was before. Guards enter and drag Florian’s body away, wine is poured, and the rest of the Kings descend the dais to rejoin the party, each in his own way.
Darkness is still throbbing in my veins as I pull my phone back out and bring up the feed.
I scowl when I don’t see her in the rehearsal hall anymore.
I check the stage, then the lobby. I haven’t put a camera in her dressing room—for reasons I don’t quite understand—but the camera I have outside it shows that the light is off under the door.
I flick to the feed that shows the alley out back, and my jaw grinds.
Lyra is talking with two men, standing far too close to her.
Talking far too familiarly with her.
One of them puts a hand on her shoulder, and I almost break my phone in half.
Suddenly, the blood I just spilled and the violence I just indulged in isn’t nearly enough to calm my monster.
And when she walks off in the direction of a car with the two of them, I see red.
Lyra pulls out her phone. For a second, I tense, waiting for a text from her. But then I see one of those motherfuckers shake his head and put his fucking hand back on her shoulder.
Like she’s his, not decidedly mine.
She puts the phone away and gets into the car.
Blackness rises up inside me. Dark ink smears through my veins.
Time to remind her exactly what kind of monster she married.
