Carnal Heart

Prologue

Devyn Shio

Some people believe traditions possess a certain type of magic. They have this ability to bring people together. As individuals and as a culture, they shape us. Take this planet, Usurn, for example. Unlike certain planets in the Seastea galaxy, Usurn values and preserves ancestral traditions and rituals.

Fuck traditions. For all I care, traditions can all burn in a raging fire somewhere until there’s nothing left but ember and ash.

A sharp slap stings my cheeks, its echo ringing in my ears as my gaze meets my father’s. Dark crimson pupils stare back, not an ounce of fear in them. Demon eyes that mirror my own. A Shio family trait that has been passed down through generations.

His nostrils flare when I don’t react. “Are you even paying attention to me?”

Conor Shio is a man who lives by traditions; our bloodline as a founding family demands it. If you ask me, all the power and wealth has gone to his head. Pathetic.

After a moment of silence, I flex my jaw. “Yes, father,” I reply, keeping my tone calm and measured, unlike his own. It’s what he taught me, after all. Never show weakness, especially to cowards.

I prop a hip against my dresser and wait to see what else he’s going to do.

My father walks over to my desk, picks up the obsidian heart-shaped pin, and pockets it before making his way back to me. Every Black Hart is required to wear the black pin with a glowing light in the middle. Meanwhile, the rest of the people on campus wear red hearts that shine just a little brighter.

As he adjusts my dark red blazer, my father’s hands reach out steadily. This time, he makes slow, even movements. First, by unnecessarily popping my collar, then folding it back with purpose. It’s all a show. A move to rile me up. To get up in my personal space and intimidate me.

News flash, father. I’ve been playing your games since I was seven. I know how your predictable little brain works.

If it weren’t for the threat he poses to both my mother and sister or the fact he has all their money tied up in illegal accounts, I would have killed him years ago after the night he tied me to a chair and beat me just to prove that Shios learn how to tolerate pain.

“Don’t forget, just because tonight is Cor Night and the rest of Sacrum Cor University will be attending this party to celebrate love and friendship doesn’t mean you need to go all soft as well. You’re a Black Hart, and this year you need to act like one. It’s tradition for you to participate in Praeda.”

I grit my teeth. Praeda is just a fucked-up rite of passage the previous Black Harts and founding fathers created to get their dicks wet without any consequences. As Black Harts, we’re free to select anyone at the party as our prey, and ultimately, we can force them to comply with our wishes. It’s all about the hunt. Choosing one person amongst thousands and stalking them throughout the night. That animalistic, fucked-up side of me loves the idea, but I refuse to do it on my father’s terms.

“Your refusal to participate in last year’s hunt was an embarrassment to our family name. You made a fool of me,” he continues, violently tugging my gray shirt and smoothing out some imaginary wrinkle. He pulls the obsidian heart out of his pocket and pins it to my blazer.

I don’t bother pointing out that Illya didn’t participate in Praeda last year either. But of course, Illya Carmine can do no wrong in my father’s eyes; none of the other Black Harts can.

“Devyn, I expect you to follow traditions and respect our family name. Since you can’t seem to find one single person amongst the hordes of people who worship the ground you walk on, I made things easy for you.”

My stomach flips with nausea. “What are you talking about?” I snap.

“I went ahead and selected your Praeda for you.” He holds up a folded piece of paper before tucking it into the front pocket of my black silk pants. “Marco Lombardi. I’m planning on doing business with his family this month. His son is a fan of yours, and he can use that extra little social boost he’ll get by being your chosen Praeda.”

Father pats my chest and takes a step back. There’s a small smile on his face, as if the conversation is done, and he’s proud that I’ll be a good little pet and listen. He begins to turn away.

Lombardi. The name sounds familiar, but I’m too pissed to think about that now.

“And what if I don’t?” I ask, unable to help my curiosity.

Father spins back around, that smile no longer in place. “What if you don’t what?” He says, slowly.

“If I don’t choose the Lombardi kid as my Praeda?”

“For fuck’s sake, Devyn,” he hisses. “You’re twenty-one years old. A fucking adult in the eyes of Usurn. If you don’t select the prey I’ve chosen for you, then you better pick someone of value. I don’t need you embarrassing me two years in a row.”

I shove my balled-up fist into my pants pocket as I tremble with rage. “Ah. Yes, because it isn’t embarrassing to take someone against their will and force them to do your bidding.”

Father rolls his eyes. “Good Light, it’s not like everyone on campus won’t be willing to bend over for you at the drop of a hat. You can pick someone else any time of the year. Tonight, you’ll pick the Lombardi kid. I don’t care what you do with him. If you don’t know who he is, check your multi-slate. I sent you a photo along with a link to his tracking device.”

My father spins on his heel. Just as he reaches the door, he looks at me from over his shoulder. “Your mother and sister say hi, by the way.” He smirks, and, with that, storms out of my bedroom.

Bastard.

He thinks he can use the ones I love as leverage. He currently has them tucked away in his heavily guarded mansion, and I have no fucking way of getting them out. Not unless my father is alive and rotting in a prison somewhere.

My reflection stares back at me in my full-length mirror; the same crimson eyes are a stark reminder that I am my father’s son. A flickering light catches my eye, and I spot his heart-shaped pin on my blazer. My father’s pin. I rip the thing off my jacket and toss it in the trash. I have my own. I don’t need to wear my father’s old university pin as he smiles and reminisces about the good ol’ days when he was a Black Hart.

Seriously, fuck traditions.

***

Snowflakes drift lazily to the ground, adding to the layers of snow that had already gathered overnight. I inhale the crisp air as I clench and unclench my fists. Something about talking to my father always riles me up, and I can’t walk into the party ready for a fight.

Up ahead, a few couples walk into the building, fingers laced, their giggles echoing in the night. Cor Night is an annual celebration. Sacrum Cor University claims it’s a celebration of love, but the real draw is the anticipation of a Black Hart participating in Praeda and selecting their prey. The whole thing is ridiculous. It’s a way for us to flaunt our power and keep the masses hopeful. I never really understood it. This year there are only eight Black Harts. Why would anyone expect to be selected out of thousands?

I deliberately slow my steps, wanting to avoid the fawning groupies. Some of my fellow Black Harts thrive on the attention, but I hate it. Originating from a founding family doesn’t grant gold diggers the right to pursue us constantly. I prefer to get attention in other ways.

Pulling up my multi-slate, I send a message over to the Black Harts group chat.

Devyn: Please tell me I’m not the only one here.

Camren is the first one to start typing. His name pops up and disappears multiple times before finally disappearing for good. Frustrated, I blow out a deep breath and decide to just get this night started by walking through the open double doors.

Several heads turn my way as students mingle in the foyer. A sea of faces, and yet no one stands out, not with everyone in attendance wearing the same mandatory dark red blazers. The only hope for individuality is by selecting some gaudy jewelry or a different-colored shirt under our jackets. That or an obsidian pin.

Illya: Look up, asshole.

My lips twitch when I peer up to see Ryker leaning against the railing while Illya scowls down at the crowd of partygoers.

Reaching the top of the stairs, I notice several Black Harts chatting, but choose to join Illya at the railing. More people shuffle through the doors, their gazes immediately bouncing up to ours. Some people smile, while others give us flirty waves. A familiar faculty member enters, greeting us with a polite tilt of her head. Even the fucking professors hope we might choose them.

“What a joke,” I grunt.

“Just pick someone and get it over with,” Ryker says from Illya’s other side.

The scrap of paper my father slipped into my pants weighs heavily in my pocket. Still itching for a fight, I lean over the banister and bait my friend. “Easy for you to say, Golden Boy. Not all of our daddies were nice enough to welcome a fuck toy into our homes.”

As predicted, Ryker is on me in a flash. There’s nothing like mentioning Ryker’s new stepbrother to get his fucking panties in a bunch.

The first blow to my stomach is a welcome pain. Usually, I’m the calm and collected Black Hart. The one known for blending in with the shadows. The observer. But my friend must have known I was desperate for a fight because the next blow that lands on my jaw skates over my lip, and suddenly, there’s blood in my mouth.

I smirk, bracing myself for more. Unfortunately, Ares and Zar are suddenly there, pulling us apart. But before Ryker gets too far, he opts for a verbal blow instead.

“At least my fuck toys are real.”

I bark out a laugh. “Touché, brother.” The fuck toy Ryker is referring to is my secret silicone doll I like to show off during my webcam sessions. Like I said, I like getting my attention in other ways. A secret porn channel with thousands of paying subscribers is the best silent ‘ fuck you ’ to my father. If he knew his precious prodigy was fucking on camera, he’d have a damn heart attack. Not to mention, the pay is fantastic. Once I have a comfortable sum saved up, I’m getting my mother and sister off this planet and away from my abusive father.

“I’m fine,” I say, shrugging Zar off of me and making my way back over to a different spot against the railing. A multitude of people, each adorned with a glowing red heart pin, shuffle through the doors by the dozens. An upbeat song starts playing and bodies sway to the beat. Cor Night has officially started.

I vaguely hear Camren join us as he chats with the others, but my mind wanders back to that damn piece of paper in my pocket. Sliding my fingers against the sharp edge, I pull it out and unfold it.

Lillie. My sister’s handwriting.

Good luck, brother.

Of fucking course, my father would force her hand. Lillie wouldn’t write this shit on her own. She knows what I think of Cor Night and Praeda. Lightly tracing the elegant script with my finger, I refold the piece of paper and place it back in my pocket.

Suddenly, the name Lombardi registers in my brain.

Remy fucking Lombardi.

Good light, I should have recognized the last name. Remy Lombardi. The one who stole my pretty little obsession out from under me before I could even introduce myself. I grit my teeth at the irony. My father expects me to choose Remy? Screw that.

The morning I followed Zaiah into the gardens was the morning I planned on speaking to the beautiful fashionista. I don’t know what it was about Zaiah with his colorful outfits and large, innocent doe-like eyes, but I just fucking knew I had to make him mine. Maybe it’s because everyone was vying for my attention, unlike Zaiah, who was always completely engrossed in his books, oblivious to my crimson gaze drinking him in.

Right as I was about to step out from the shadows, Remy wrapped his arm around Zaiah. I saw red. That animalistic side of me wanted to rip out his throat and claim Zaiah right there in the school gardens for everyone to see.

It was the last day I saw Zaiah. Figuring my little crush was pathetic and pointless now that he was gone, I stopped stalking the beautiful man and decided it was time to get over him. I missed my chance. He left. End of story.

After most of the Black Harts spot their prey and leave for the party, I make my way downstairs, past the crowded entrance, and over to the next room. The music is louder here. Paired with the writhing bodies and eager eyes, I’m ready to leave.

Instead, I make my way onto the dance floor. At one point, a pretty female flirts with me and hands me a drink. I down it in one shot. And then I down another. As soon as more people see me socializing, the flirty remarks keep coming, and the roaming hands become braver. The wild touches and grinding bodies make me hard, but no one has caught my attention.

Whispers and questions reach my ears. Rumors of certain Black Harts and who they might choose. At one point, a few people ask if it’s true that I plan on picking Remy as my Praeda. I growl in frustration. Even here on this fucking dance floor, I can’t avoid my father’s request. When the next person gets in my face and scoffs, claiming that Praeda is rigged and my prey has already been chosen for me, I shove the taunting asshole away from me.

The stares are nothing new. Being watched is expected. But as I slip into the shadows, leaving a flurry of confused faces behind me, I have to admit, there’s something thrilling about being hidden in the shadows, unobserved.

I might not want to do my father’s bidding and go after Remy Lombardi, but with my luck, I’d accidentally pick him just because I erased the guy’s face from my memory. I pull up my multi-slate and find the email Father sent. Just as the photo loads, movement catches my eye.

My whole body jerks forward in shock before I freeze in place. There’s no way.

He’s back?

Zaiah Ruca stands there with his best friend, looking even more beautiful than ever with his vibrant red hair and sensual, pouty lips. As usual, he’s unaware of my gaze on him. He’s wearing a pair of tight-as-sin black pants and a pastel floral crop top under his blazer. I’m pretty sure that shirt goes against our dress code. It’s such an innocent little rebellion, but fuck, it makes me hard as steel.

My eyes drop back down to my multi-slate and I sneer. Is this some kind of fucking joke? I half expect my father to be nearby watching or for one of my fellow Black Harts playing a trick.

Right there in front of me, and on the screen, is a photo of Remy Lombardi in the gardens with his arm wrapped around Zaiah.

I grit my teeth. Just knowing that someone took this photo of Zaiah when I was there, too, fills me with rage.

Although, now that I look at the photo closely, the focus is on Remy. Someone was following Remy.

But what about Zaiah? And how is he here now?

A quick scan on my multi-slate shows me records that Zaiah never actually left Sacrum Cor University; he just changed majors. Fuck. No wonder I never saw him. He was constantly in different buildings.

But he was still here. All this fucking time.

Sticking to the shadows, I creep closer, eager to hear what he’s saying to his friend.

A notification beeps on my multi-slate, and I’m momentarily distracted by the photo of the man who took Zaiah away from me. As I stare at Remy Lombardi, my father’s words replay in my head . ‘I don’t care what you do with him, just do something.’

I smirk.

Father wanted me to choose a Praeda this year?

My eyes find Zaiah again. Well, I have chosen.

Father said he didn’t care what I did with the Lombardi kid, as long as I did… something .

For the first time tonight, I smile. A genuine, wide smile.

Father is going to be so pissed. I’ve decided what I want to do to Remy Lombardi, and I want to fuck him over. That cocky little shit thinks he can spread rumors about me and take what’s mine. He needs to be put in his place. No one can tell a Black Hart what to do, ever. Especially not during Praeda.

I’m going to take what that prick foolishly thought was his.

I chuckle to myself, unable to keep my heart from racing with adrenaline. “Oh, Father, you should have chosen your words wisely.” Let the hunt begin.

Huh. Maybe there’s something to this whole tradition bullshit after all.