Ruthless Valentine (St. Valentines)

1. Prologue

Prologue

Phoenix

H umid air swept along my skin, kissing against my flesh until sweat was forming over my hairline. Everyone was dressed the same in heavy black cloaks with hoods shielding their faces. The lights were dimmed, alight with only torches for vision. It looked like something out of a horror film. Shadows danced along the walls, whispering dark promises. My brother’s bluish-green eyes sparked with excitement, his gaze flickering over the multitude of founders.

This was it. Our initiation.

There was a wooden cross leaning against the furthest wall. The mere sight of it was haunting, almost as if it were laughing in our faces. These assholes were delusional if they thought we were getting into heaven, especially after this. Assuming such a place existed.

Up ahead, the main founders stood on either side of what appeared to be an altar. A candle was clutched between each of their hands, their faces completely covered by darkness. A few of the men wore these gaudy looking things on their heads, taking this to the extremes it seemed.

One of the men stepped forward, his spine snapped straight, and his candle flickering in the tomb. Not like he really needed it with all things considered. I clutched the jagged knife between my thumb and index finger, my hand itching to use it. Bloodlust roared inside my veins, heating my blood to dangerous heights.

“It is time,” the man spoke, his voice coming out strange and almost muffled. It sounded as though he spoke behind a mask, but I couldn’t see under his hood to be sure.

I gave a slight nod of my head and watched as King, my brother, allowed his cloak to slip from his shoulders. His dark hair shimmered beneath the fire as he peeled his shirt off, exposing his broad back to me. His skin was tan, even under the soft glow of the fire. Slowly, I raised the dagger to his back and started to carve the first founder’s name into his skin. He sucked in a ragged breath as the blood began trickling down his spine. My lips parted on a silent gasp of my own, my gaze tracking the crimson liquid.

Blood. So fascinating in its own right. A wave of euphoria crashed into me, making my cock twitch in my dark jeans that were sealed beneath the heavy cloak I wore. I wanted to run my fingers through the warm substance. It was taking all of my self-restraint to refrain from doing just that. I added a second name beneath the first one, his breathing laboring from the pain mixed with pleasure, his own bloodlust and desire rearing its head. I knew him all too well. He was getting off on this.

“ The founders have your back.”

That was their famous saying, but it couldn’t be furthest from the truth. They only cared about themselves; they only had their own back. But I was born into this. One day, I’d be a founder, just like them. Until then, I had a duty to fulfill. One I didn’t mind.

By the time I was finished, blood was skating down his skin, dripping over his jeans. It truly was a masterpiece.

“It is time,” the cloaked man repeated again.

I swallowed thickly, offering the dagger to the man behind me. My cloak fell away in a single fluid motion, the air brushing against my skin. The first nick had me tensing from the sudden cut, the warmth of the blood trickling over my back. He cut again and again and again until all that was left was a burning ache in my spine and liquid dribbling over the fresh wounds. I enjoyed inflicting pain. But I wasn’t much of a masochist, not like my brother. The air was cool against my fresh cuts, only amplifying the sharpness of them.

My muscles flexed of their own accord; the scent of blood heavy in the underground cavern. This continued: men dropping their cloaks to be flayed open by the person behind them. When we were done, the person on the end sliced a jagged cut across his palm and passed the weapon to the next. The same weapon that one of our first founders used to murder his wife in cold blood. Once we all had a decent sized gash in our hands, we approached the altar, and simultaneously placed our sliced hands over the offering bowl, allowing our blood to drip inside of it.

One of the founders stepped forward, the faint light of his candle enhancing his features. He wore a skull mask, the only part of him that could be seen were his beady gray eyes.

In unison, we rubbed our hands together, smearing the blood between them before we all joined them together, our bloody palms sticking to one another. “My blood is now your blood, Brother mine. You have our back, and we have yours.” Our voices echoed through the cavern, the hairs on the back of my neck standing on end. A current of electricity rippled through my veins, whispering dark promises in my mind. Promises I couldn’t wait to fulfill.