Chapter 4
four
People closing their eyes to the mayhem? Just as guilty as the manipulators. The society has done an excellent job convincing the sheep to beg for slaughter. Willing themselves to be sacrificed.
Maybe they deserve it.
Her long legs peek out of a skirt so short, it’s easy for the representative to shove it up. Probably one the catering company forced her to wear to get those extra tips from the president and his ilk. So sanctimonious.
Indifferent, I watch the little lamb struggle against the politician as he presses her against the side of President Harvey’s house.
Her squeal of discomfort sets my lips into a straight line.
Not rage. Not shock. Just…exhaustion. My camera captures it all.
But what good is footage when no one gives a shit?
Yet, I document everything. Evidence is a weapon, and one day, when the right match strikes, it’ll burn the world down. Even if the fire comes late, I want my proof stacked high and ready. Records are for the reckoning. For the few who haven’t drunk the wine.
And for her, if she ever needs to remember why I did what I did.
A bang on the passenger window makes my entire body jerk and slam my laptop closed. “Fuck!”
“Bro! You jumped ten feet!” Lex Lynx’s voice is muffled through the car, but sharp enough to set my molars into a grind.
Stepping out into the crisp night air, I give him a deadpan look behind my mask. Beckham Locke bounces into the seat I leave empty. I snag my backpack from the rear bench.
“No, I’m driving!” Lex pulls out his pistol and holds it against the other initiate’s forehead.
“Fuck you, Lex. You got the last one!”
With a sigh, I reach in, pull the keys out, and toss them to Lex. “He’ll drive. You can’t take corners the way he can.”
Lex’s smirk is demented. He’s a crazy motherfucker. I’m not scared of anything, but I don’t want to piss him off. It’d be like trying to reason with a tiger mid-feast—stupid, suicidal, and bound to end in blood.
Beckham slumps, then gets out and slides into Remington’s Porsche on the other side, while Lex takes position behind the wheel.
“Straight to the shop,” I instruct them. “No passing Go. No joy rides. We can’t let anyone see this out and about tonight.”
Lex caresses the leather on the wheel. “Got it. Just a clean chop and pieces sold off, so no one suspects you just took out the president and secretary of Beta while framing the president of Omega, who happens to be the president of Theta’s sister.
” Those crystal eyes lift to mine, lips spreading into something feral.
His grin is all teeth and lunacy. “Want to go for another threat and take out some Sigmas or Iotas tonight?” Grabbing his crotch, he readjusts himself at the thought.
“Focus, initiate. Get the job done as instructed without straying off to do your own thing. Locke, you’re in charge of making sure Lynx doesn’t do something too stupid.” As a senior member of Delta, they have to follow my orders. Even if I’m not an officer.
Beckham’s jaw drops, as if to protest, and I know he’s thinking no one can control Lex. He’s right. But at least that’ll give us someone to blame if tonight’s clean-up doesn’t go well.
Lex raises the window, and I step back, tossing my laptop into my bag and hoisting it over my arms. When he peels out of the driveway of Sanguine House, the abandoned old manor that Beta uses for the Greek Games, my jaw tenses.
Audacious madcap. He’s probably hunting for bodies to put bullets in tonight.
The rain sheets down in spitting drizzles, and I bend to tie my bootlace. Skirting through the thickets near the stone walls that frame the abandoned mansion, I make my way to the back of Delta house’s garage on the next lot over.
As I enter, the buzz of the electric door opens with a hum, drowned out by the loud roar of my motorcycle’s engine along with another beside it.
My youngest brother, Vander, freshman initiate of Delta rips off my helmet and shakes out his red hair, just as my cousin, Oz, steps off his Harley parked next to him.
“Got it here in one piece. Good job,” I tell my brother as he turns off the engine.
Oz gives me a coy grin, then slaps my shoulder. “You’ve missed the last three Call of Duty campaigns. Van keeps getting sniped.”
Vander grins from under his damp curls. “I still got you out, didn’t I?”
“You got me killed,” Oz mutters, digging in his pocket as his phone vibrates. “Next time, don’t stop to loot bodies. Just saying. I gotta take this… Another day, another luscious dick waiting for me.” His eyebrows raise lasciviously as he dances toward the house.
Vander flashes me a look as I check over the bike carefully. If he scratched it? He’s getting every mark back on his skin. “You good? You’ve been ghosting hard lately.”
“Working,” I tell him simply.
He kicks at the concrete like he’s got more to say.
“What?”
“I ran into Mrs. Meyerson earlier this evening.”
My stomach knots as I try to regulate my breathing. Steady. I grunt an acknowledgement.
“You ever think about Abby?” he asks, voice quieter. “Valencia’s friend. The one who liked our money more than you?”
Vander was too young to remember how hung up on her I was. How she led me on. Until my sister confessed she’d overheard her discussing our family’s wealth.
And what a “gross dork” she thought I was. Yeah, I had thick glasses and wiry braces. Probably talked way too much about paladin builds for World of Warcraft. But she convinced me she was into it.
Abby Meyerson, the cool girl from a society family, was determined to get me to fall for her. For Prada. Or Gucci.
After Valencia told on her, I wised up to the facts.
People are users. Only want something in exchange for their own gains.
“No, I don’t think about Abby. Why?”
He shrugs, wandering closer to the door to close it. “I remember when you found out what a bitch she really was. You didn’t talk for, like, three weeks. Just…shut down. Then she got murdered.”
“Why you bringing this up? Is someone bothering you?” I growl.
“No, I was thinking about everything here.” His hand waves around toward the house and campus. “How we’re supposed to cover up problems, but we’re also kinda causing them by doing so. I didn’t get why you changed then, but I do now.”
Confused, I pause for a moment. “Why now?”
“Because of that slaughtered girl from Massacre Monday, I guess. It looked pretty brutal.” He shakes his head before I can tell him to jump off the subject completely. “I know,” he says, softer now. “You stopped trusting people after that. Even Valencia said so.”
There’s a beat of silence as the rain thrums harder outside the garage.
“She didn’t deserve what happened,” Vander says. “None of them do.”
My jaw tics. “I completely disagree.”
He nods, undeterred. “Don’t let it rot you.” His innocence cuts through me like a jagged edge. He’s always been sweet. But he could afford to be with me and Valor, even Valencia, to protect him.
“Get inside, Van,” I tell him, slinging my bag tighter over my shoulder. “I’ll lock up.”
He hesitates like he wants to say more, but obeys. As the garage door rattles shut behind him, I take a moment to breathe. It’s been a long time since I thought of Abby.
At least I have evidence on the monster that raped and murdered her. I tell myself it didn’t matter. That she used me. What happened to her was just the world balancing itself…
But after I saw Olivia Cardell for the first time, I developed a spark of hope. A flicker of humanity stirred inside me, which made me wonder if I could seek revenge…or earn absolution.
Marching toward the house, the rain stops, but a movement catches my eye.
It’s too dark to make out the cloaked figure standing at the edge of the woods, but I can see the phone he’s holding up…and the images on it. My heart skips a beat.
They’re from my fucking camera. Whoever he is, he’s already inside the game. My game.
As if beckoning me to follow, he darkens the screen on his phone and heads into the woods behind fraternity row. His pace is swift, and his aim is toward the center of campus, cutting through the south end. Who is he?
On sure feet, I follow like we’re having a conversation without words. He doesn’t even turn his head, but it’s apparent he knows I’m there. As we close in on the park behind the cathedral, my eyes squint. Surely, he’s not… He won’t…
Each step closer to the lake has my chest tightening with worry. Is he going toward Omega house? Her house?
Traditional weapons never felt necessary. Thought is a sharper blade than any knife. Code, more lethal than a bullet. Next time, though? The Ruger goes in the waistband.
Maintaining several hundred feet between us, I monitor his movements as he deftly glides through the cemetery, then pauses at a mausoleum. Without hesitation, he opens the door and steps inside, shutting it behind him. I crouch behind a tombstone and wait.
This is a fucking trap if I ever saw one. For what purpose? I’m not sure…
Is the society onto me? I thought Northview University’s president had no idea who I was other than West Tech Industries’ heir. Perhaps he’s wised up. Is this one of his men? The enforcers who work for the Board of Loyalty?
Not taking the bait, I skirt past the cathedral and dart through trees noiselessly until I can make sure my target is safe.
The lamp next to her bed spills a golden stream over the lawn, calling me home like my personal lighthouse. Avoid the sharp edges. Watch the waves. Dock in the harbor.
Scaling the wall is easy. Holding myself back from entering her room? Not so much. But her friend is there as they converse about the evening’s events.
She’s a good girl. Keeping her mouth shut. I watch until the other Omega leaves and Olivia’s breathing evens out.
The steady rise of her breasts soothes the deep ache inside me. Until I’m here. I hover over her, inhaling that midnight scent. Only then can I breathe. Chaos stops. Nihilism fades. Meaning returns.
Shrugging off my backpack, I slide it to its spot next to her dresser. I study her for maybe an hour. Memorize every line, every soft curve.
Beholden.
She’s…beholden to me.
And that makes me rock hard. Too delicate to touch. Too fragile to disrupt. But pure enough to anoint.
Her diary is tucked in her nightstand, and I flip to the latest page, catching up on anything I missed. Now that we’ve been officially introduced, I draw a Monarch and leave her a note.
The cocoon is safe...until it’s not. Do you think the butterfly remembers the pain?
The embalmed Giant Swallowtail wing she holds drops to the floor as she rolls onto her side, facing me. She still slumbers, not knowing I’m right beside her.
She probably thought the wing belonged to the royalty of the Lepidoptera.
Over the years, watching her, I’ve learned too much about the Order.
Studied it obsessively. Not because I cared about insects, but because she showed an interest. It gave me a language to speak to her, silently.
Like we have a connection without ever exchanging a word.
And butterflies? They’re delicate but emerge from darkness wholly changed. Maybe I needed to believe that she could do the same.
So I waited. Found a perfect Monarch wing. Embalmed it just for her.
Patience always pays off.
I dig into my jeans pocket and produce the charm, then place it in her sweaty palm. My glove reminds me of the burdens I carry. If only I could touch her skin with my own...
But it would be too much. Not to mention, the possibility of leaving a piece of physical evidence before I’ve bought her obedience.
As carefully as I can, I brush some of the chocolate locks off her glistening forehead, then palm myself. She’s been through so much tonight—her awakening. She doesn’t realize she’s bound in a silky envelope. Now, she’ll have to struggle to break free.
But she’ll emerge stronger than before. She has to. And I can’t wait to see her metamorphosis.
I remove a glove, stuffing it into my pocket, then pull out my hot length. A tight grasp on the shaft gives me momentary relief. With a tug, I almost release a moan, but bite back the sound.
The veins twitch with urgency as I stroke myself, holding the tip close to her face. I imagine her forest-green eyes opening, the look of shock and terror they would hold as they find me here. It makes me leak from the tip.
Every breath of air she exhales sends my neck back and my hips jutting forward. Closer. So near to her warmth. Her touch…
A shift of her legs pulls the sheet down until her shoulder is exposed. Her collarbone is the sexiest thing I think I’ve ever seen. If my teeth could just sink into it.
In my mind, I picture a bruise there in the shape of my bite. The mark I would leave, and she’d tattoo it so it would always be with her. Never leave.
Her lips part as she exhales a withering breath. That mouth I long to taste with my own. For now, I press the reddened crown of my dick against them as it begs for me to release.
Our first touch.
The moment forces a stifled groan from my lungs.
My jerking release baptizes her mouth, her cheek, the slope of her neck.
Marking her in a way ink never could. Every pulse, every rope of cum becomes a declaration: mine, mine, mine.
I watch it drip down her skin. My seed. My signature.
My vow. I hurriedly draw back as reams continue to shoot from the end and let them splash on her new wing. Christening her…
My Chrysalis.