Chapter 14
EVELINA
It's official: digitally at least, Vaughn Bancroft doesn’t exist.
I get zero hits from Google. Then I try Bing, Duck Duck Go, Yandex, and a few other search engines I’ve never heard of.
Still nothing.
No socials. No pictures. No news articles that mention his name or even the Obsidian Syndicate itself, which is equal parts strange and terrifying.
Having zero presence online doesn’t mean you don’t post on Facebook very much or go on TikTok that often.
It means you’ve got the power and the means to make yourself invisible.
Sitting cross-legged on my bed, I roll my neck before leaning forward again to peer at the laptop screen in front of me.
Val, of course, has a huge online presence.
There’s plenty of news about the Zakharova, including an incredible piece New York Magazine did a few months ago on masculinity and the arts featuring a killer interview with him.
He’s all over social media, too, though he’s cleaned it up a bit since becoming an item with my brother.
I remember a time when his Instagram page was full of party pics with Val looking his usual smugly charming self, his arms around all manner of male and female “friends”.
Aka, fuck buddies.
But in a post-Roman world? That’s all gone. Now, his social media is an endless, nauseating barrage of cutesy photos of the two of them.
Val and Roman holding hands walking through Central Park. Val and Roman kissing courtside at a Knicks game. Val looking incredibly excited and proud as he mugs for the camera, while Roman rolls his eyes and holds up his six-month sobriety coin.
But his older brother?
Nothing. Not a single photo, post, reference, or “like”.
I scowl at the laptop screen before suddenly, I pause.
Did I just say “fuck buddy”?
Heat creeps up my neck. Okay, I didn't say it. But I sure thought it.
Fuck buddy.
I repeat it inside my head like a dirty little secret, letting it simmer there.
It’s not that I don’t swear. It’s just that…
Okay, I don’t swear. But it’s not something I do purposefully, like I’m trying to cultivate this ultra prim and proper “good girl” persona. I just don’t really ever use expletives, especially not the F word.
And yet…I just did say it…or at least think it.
Fuck.
Fuck.
“Fuck!!!”
I cringe the moment I yell the word out loud to no one in my room. My face throbs with heat as I clamp both hands over my mouth, biting back a grin.
“Fuck,” I say again, much more quietly.
Hmm.
Apparently, no-longer-a-virgin Evelina swears.
Interesting.
It’s been five days since that night.
The night Vaughn rampaged past every comfort zone, line and boundary I have. Or had. And since then, that’s all I’ve been thinking about.
Not in a “schoolgirl crush” way. Naive as I am, I’m not that innocent. I know sex frequently is just sex. I know this doesn't make him my boyfriend.
But still.
Still.
My teeth rake over my lower lip.
It was my first time. Five days later, saying that to myself still brings a flutter to my stomach.
I’m not a virgin anymore.
The major bummer is, I can’t tell anyone. I can't confess breathlessly to any of my besties that I, Evelina, got royally fucked the other night.
A blush heats my face.
I think I could get used to this internal swearing thing.
Because that’s the only word to describe what the other night was. I didn’t “make love”. I didn’t “hook up” or “have sex”.
I got fucked.
Hard.
Brutally.
Like a cheap whore.
And it was, without question, the hottest night of my life, leading to the biggest orgasms I’ve ever had.
It’s also resulted in several other very intense orgasms over the last few days. It appears that Vaughn’s savage brutality has unlocked something in me.
It’s not like the old Evelina didn’t ever masturbate. I mean, innocence aside, I’m still human. And even though there were times when I wondered if I was asexual, I still had urges. And I did, on occasion, “relieve” those urges in private.
Since the other night, though, I’ve “relieved” those urges twelve times.
In five days.
That's more “relief” that I’ve given myself in the last nine months before the other night.
And every single one of those fantasies, and every single one of my dreams where I wake up wet and clenching my thighs together, were about Vaughn.
Well, except for one horrifying sex dream where Vaughn morphed into Ethan, my ex, and dream me had to yell at him to go away.
I should really start limiting my caffeine and sugar intake.
My phone chiming on my bed pulls me away from the decidedly pornographic replays of the other night in the graveyard. I glance down and grin when I see who it is.
"Hey, Gabby!"
“Hey! I’ve been insanely busy the last few days, but I’ve been dying to ask you how your initiation went!”
Heat floods my face.
“Oh, it was…”
I got fucked to within an inch of my life in the middle of a graveyard. Also, it was my first time.
“It was…fine,” I mumble, my cheeks throbbing.
“Um, don’t answer if you don’t want to, obviously, but, uh, what happened to you? I mean you looked…I don’t mean to but shitty, but you just looked…”
Like I got fucked by an animal?
“Oh, it was nothing,” I say quickly. “My initiation was outside, and I totally tripped over something like an idiot and fell right into this huge muddy puddle,” I blurt. “My Adept was really nice about it, though, and gave me that coat to wear since my clothes were shot.”
“Ugh, I’m sorry,” she groans. “You were okay, though?”
An excellent question.
“Oh, totally,” I laugh nervously. “Just wet!”
I cringe.
“From the mud.” I clear my throat. “How was yours—” I frown as I suddenly flash back to the beginning of the initiation, before my madness with Vaughn.
“Oh my God!” I blurt, remembering the huge man towering over Gabby growling “change of plans”. “Right! What happened with—”
“Nothing,” she replies quickly, her voice cracking a little.
My brow furrows. “But did you figure out what happened to your friend?”
“Oh, yeah, no…” She pauses. “They said it was a conflict of interest.”
I mean, it does make sense that the Syndicate wouldn’t want an initiate’s friend to be their Adept. I’ve heard of sororities doing the same to avoid anyone “going easy” on a pledge.
My mouth twists as I remember something else she said that night. “Oh, jeez, does that mean you had to—”
“Snakes, yeah,” she says quickly, her voice shaking. She forces an awkward laugh. “No luck avoiding that.” She blows out a breath, clearly not wanting to talk about it. “What about you? What was the fear you had to face?”
A monster.
“Monsters,” I blurt.
When she pauses, I scrunch my face up.
“I mean obviously not actual monsters,” I add with another nervous laugh. “But like, being afraid of a jump-scare.”
“Yikes,” Gabby mumbles. “In that creepy place? Sounds terrifying.”
“It was, yeah.” I swallow, heat rising in my cheeks. “Yeah, it was terrifying.”
Terrifying how much I enjoyed it.
Terrifying how much I’ve been fantasizing about it nonstop ever since.
“So who was the guy you got instead of your friend?”
“Evie…” There’s caution in her tone. “We’re not supposed to talk about who our Adepts are.”
“Oh, right, of course,” I mumble.
She laughs awkwardly. “Although, I guess it'll become pretty obvious at the get-together on Saturday night.”
My brow furrows. “The what?”
“The Syndicate cocktail party,” Gabby continues. “At that penthouse on Central Park West?”
My mouth purses. “I…don’t think I was invited.”
She snorts. “Of course you were! It’s like a thing for Adepts and their Acolytes. Did your Adept not tell you about it yet?”
Yet.
“I…I guess not,” I hazard, my brows knitting. “Hey, how often have you and your Adept talked since the initiation, anyway?”
“Just…” Her voice cracks again. “Just a few times. That’s all.”
A few times.
For me, it’s been five days of radio silence.
Gabby’s talked with her Adept “a few times”, and I’ve got nothing? Not even an invite to this Syndicate party specifically for Adepts and their Acolytes?
“Evie, I’m sure your Adept just forgot to mention it. Remember, these people are all high-ranking members of the Syndicate. Like, they've got shit to do, right?”
“Oh, for sure,” I murmur, frowning. “Hey, what’s the address of that place?”
She rattles off the ritzy address and I quickly type it into my laptop.
“Hey, I know,” she says brightly. “Why don’t we meet up before for a drink or something and go together?”
I frown. “Don't you think I should wait for my Adept to get in contact first?”
“Eh,” she says casually. “Again, these people are busy, girl. I say if they reach out, great. If not, just show up. They’ll probably be relieved when they see you because they'll realize they forgot to give you the details.”
My Adept?
Highly debatable. But I also didn’t go through what I went through the other night to quit now, just because Vaughn sucks at texting.
A grin spreads over my face. “Meeting up before sounds great.”
Me
How come I wasn’t invited to the Syndicate party on Saturday?
Okay, I cracked. It’s been three days since I talked to Gabby, which means eight days since the initiation. And I still hadn’t heard a word from Vaughn.
I mean, purely from an administrative standpoint… This isn’t just any Adept. He’s the freaking Marquis. I get that he’s probably insanely busy, but surely he could have had an assistant message me about Saturday?
So earlier tonight, after rehearsal, when I saw Val’s phone lying open on the side of the stage, I may have grabbed his brother’s personal cellphone number.
I stare at the “Read” notification next to my text. Which means he’s seen it but has chosen not to respond.
Me
Hi
Me
Hellooo? I know you’re there.
Those are both “read”, too. I sigh, staring at the screen as I lie back in bed. Finally, I see the three dots appear.
Vaughn
Getting my personal number from Val was a poor judgment call.
I shiver, shaken at how easily he knew that. Then I remind myself that there’s logically only so many ways I could have gotten his number, especially since he's a ghost online.
Me
I just want to know what I’m supposed to do now.
Vaughn
What you should do is use that safe word.
Me
***
Me
I mean with the party. I was waiting for my invite, but it’s tomorrow, so I'm wondering what I should do.
Vaughn
I told you. Use your goddamn safe word. You’re in over your head, and if you keep this up, I promise you, you’ll drown.
An icy shiver creeps up my spine. Then I scowl at the phone as my fingers start to tap.
Me
Well, still haven’t used it. Guess you have to bring me as your date to this thing. Too bad! :P
He reads the message.
He doesn’t answer.
No three dots. Nothing. I keep staring at the screen, waiting for a reply, feeling more and more pathetic when it doesn’t come.
Me
JK, it’s not “too bad”. I’m quite fun at parties.
Still nothing.
Me
Is this like a test?
Crickets.
Me
Anyhoo, what time on Saturday works? I got the address from a friend, so I can just meet you there. She and I are going to get drinks beforehand.
Radio. Freaking. Silence.
Me
OK…I’ll just see you there, then?
Another long minute drags by. Finally, those three dots appear.
Vaughn
You’re done. The Syndicate is not for you. Delete this number.
I stare at the screen, a mix of anger and something else sinking into my gut.
…Something that I refuse to label as anything approaching “feeling rejected by the guy I lost my virginity to a few days ago”.
That would be pathetic, even for me.
New Evie actually gets as far as typing “go fuck yourself, motherfucker” as heat blooms across her face.
But then I delete it and toss the phone down onto the bed. My jaw sets.
I am not pissed about his answer because of who he is, i.e., the guy who I had sex with for the first time.
I’m not.
But I am pissed about being sidelined by an organization who went on and on about utter commitment and brotherhood and all that bullshit.
Screw Vaughn.
I smile smugly.
No.
FUCK Vaughn.
Yeah, you already did that, and where did that get you?
I pout, sinking into the pillows at my back.
I hate the way my heart jumps in my chest when my phone dings. I also hate how quickly I fumble for it and unlock the screen.
The second I do, my smile fades.
My chest tightens.
It’s not Vaughn.
It’s Diego.
I click on the text and immediately gasp sharply, my hand flying to my mouth.
It’s a photo of my father, sitting at a table on a small apartment balcony, sipping coffee and reading a Russian newspaper.
…A photo that’s been taken through the scope of a rifle, the crosshairs centered squarely on Dad’s forehead.
Diego Torvallés
Don’t mistake my patience for weakness, Evelina.
Diego Torvallés
I want what I asked for. Find my bastard son.
Diego Torvallés
Do not keep me waiting.