Naomi #2
Her lips curl into a playful smile. “My parents are out of town. We can stay in for the weekend.”
“I’ll pack a bag,” I tell her.
She beams at me, her arms tightening around my torso like she never wants to let go. As I hold her against me, my chest tightens with something that feels too big to put into words.
“I gotta go,” I murmur, brushing a kiss across her temple. “I’ll see you later.”
“Okay, babe.” I turn to leave, but her hand wraps around my arm, stopping me in my tracks. Her eyes search mine, her voice steady and sure. “Just know, whatever’s going on, I’m not going anywhere. You’ve got me. Always.”
The words hit like a wrecking ball, cracking open something inside me.
I tug her closer, capturing her lips with mine.
The kiss starts soft, a question, but quickly deepens into something raw, hungry, and real.
When we break apart, we’re both breathless, our foreheads pressed together, noses brushing.
“I love you,” I say, the words spilling out before I can stop them. It’s the first time I’ve said it, but I’ve known for months. I wanted it to mean something, and now, at this moment, it does. She’s my everything. My first love, my only.
Her smile lights up her whole face, her voice trembling just enough to give her away. “I love you too.”
“Get inside,” I say, grazing my thumb over her cheek. “It’s cold.”
She heads for the house, hips swaying in a way that makes it hard to look away. I wait until she disappears inside before I get back in the car and pull off, the grin on my face refusing to fade. But, of course, my brothers can’t let me have a moment.
“Oh, Maxie, I just love you so much!” Tris mocks, pitching his voice high like a lovesick teenager.
“Oh, Shantel, I love you too,” Tré chimes in, deepening his to mock me, obnoxiously smacking his lips. “I’ll be back tonight to give you this thick di—”
“Aye!” I snap, cutting him off before he can finish. “Cut it out! There are children present!”
“Yeah, guys, ew!” Naomi chimes in from the backseat, her voice full of playful innocence. “Leave Max alone. I think his intentions with Shantel are honorable.”
I catch her eyes in the rear-view mirror and wink. “You’re so right, Pretty Girl. Thank you for keeping these heathens in check.” That sends Tré and Tris into hysterics, their laughter shaking the car.
When we drop off Aisha, she says goodbye to everyone, finishing with the ridiculous little handshake she and Naomi came up with. But when she gets to Tris, her goodbye—as always—is rushed as she runs away flushed and nervous. Tris gives her a not-so-innocent grin the whole time.
“I think Aisha has a little crush,” I say, side-eyeing Tris as he hops over the armrest and into the front seat just as I pull away from the curb.
He grimaces, shaking his head like the idea physically pains him. “Nah, I’m good. That’s a kid,” he says, changing the radio station.
“Hey! We’re only two and a half years younger than you!” Naomi protests, her voice sharp with indignation.
“Like I said, a child,” Tris deadpans, smirking as he tunes the radio.
“So, stop messing with her,” Naomi pipes up, a hint of irritation in her voice. My eyes flick to her in the rear-view as Tris turns around to meet her crumpled face. “She really likes you. You shouldn’t toy with people’s hearts, it’s not fair.”
“Okay. I’m sorry,” Tris says simply, unaware of how much it affected her, but my little brother has never been the most self-aware.
Thank goodness for Naomi, always checking us on our bullshit.
Even at thirteen, she says the things we need to hear, not the ones that are nice to hear, her fading southern drawl making it sound sugary sweet either way.
The rest of the ride is mercifully quiet, and soon enough, we’re pulling up to the house. As we pile out of the car and into the foyer, I can feel the weight of tonight pressing heavier on my shoulders.
“Max.” My father’s voice booms from his office, deep and commanding. “Come in here, please, son.”
My stomach flips, and a cold sweat prickles at the back of my neck. I shoot a quick glance at Naomi, who gives me a small nod of encouragement, but it doesn’t help much. I step into my father’s office, sliding the door shut softly behind me.
He sits behind his massive oak desk, the air in the room heavy with the scent of cigar smoke and leather. My mother is perched at his side, her delicate hand resting on his shoulder, her hazel eyes running over me, soft with concern.
“Bonne nuit,” my father greets, his deep timbre thick with authority.
“Bonne nuit, Père,” I reply, my voice steady despite the nerves twisting in my gut. “Maman”
She doesn’t greet in words; she never does. Instead, she gracefully moves around the desk to wrap me in her arms. “My sweet boy.” I hear the fractures in words, the tremors that tell me she is close to tears.
“Are you ready for tonight?” he continues in French, leaning back in his chair as Momma pulls back to study me before she makes her way back to my father’s side.
“Can I be honest?” I say, quieter now.
“Always, baby,” my mother drawls, concern flickering in her hazel eyes. She’s hoping—praying—that I’ll say I won’t go through with it. That I’ll refuse. But I won’t. I can’t.
I meet her gaze, then my father’s, the decision already made. “I’m ready. Just a little…tired.”
Her lips press into a thin line, but her eyes soften, a silent acknowledgment of what we both know: This isn’t about me. This is about all of us. About keeping our family safe, our legacy intact.
My father’s gaze doesn’t waver. “It’s his choice, my love.
Just as it was ours,” he says, pulling my mother into his lap with a tenderness that would almost seem out of place—if I hadn’t seen it a thousand times before.
His hand cups her face, and she leans into him, their connection unshaken after twenty-five years. It’s nauseating.
I clear my throat, cutting through the moment. “I have one condition, though.”
Both of their gazes snap to me. My father tilts his head, his hazel-brown eyes narrowing slightly, while my mother stiffens in his lap, her concern flaring back to life.
“Go on,” my father says, his tone calm, but laced with warning.
I take a deep breath, steadying myself. This is the line I have to draw—the one thing I won’t compromise on. “If I’m doing this, I need your word that Naomi never has to know about The Corinthium. Not now. Not ever.”
The air is heavy, suffocating, as their eyes bore into me. My father’s jaw tightens, his hand pausing mid-stroke on my mother’s cheek. She looks at him, a silent conversation passing between them.
Finally, he nods, “You have my word.”
We slide into the Rolls-Royce, its dark leather interior swallowing us whole, and an hour later, we arrive at the limestone mansion that has become my own personal prison. Each stone is a silent witness to the legacy I’m about to uphold, the life I’m about to take.
The suit I wear—custom-made Bottega Veneta—is sharp, but not enough to cut through the thick tension weighing down on my chest. Tonight, I will take the Rite. I will become a part of a legacy forged over hundreds of years.
Inside the foyer, the air smells of wealth and dread.
We each grab our masks and gloves, sliding on our signet rings like a final seal of fate.
The hallway stretches out before us, endless and foreboding, until we reach the double doors of The Great Room at the end of the corridor, stories of how we came to be carved into its doors.
We are the last to arrive. I am the guest of honor, after all.
Within minutes, the ceremony begins, not leaving any room to take a breath or think about what is going to happen here tonight.
The room falls silent as I step into the center when the sacrifice is brought out, and I lock eyes with my father, who doesn’t show an ounce of disconcert that my sacrifice is just a girl.
My mother’s eyes glint with sadness behind her mask, but she doesn’t say a word.
My sacrifice is a small, blonde-haired girl who can’t be much older than Naomi.
Her white silk dress clings to her frame, almost angelic in its simplicity.
A virgin. The kind our God craves. Other than broken, damaged souls, they are the only acceptable sacrifices in its eyes.
The latter was what I had hoped for—a serial killer or an adult who had lost their faith seemed more appealing.
But the purer the sacrifice, the stronger the Rite. So, I shouldn’t have been surprised. My father would have simply weighed the options and chosen the cream of the crop, the best that money can buy. And I’m sure purity doesn’t come cheap.
Decades ago, sacrifices were forced to be offered to our God.
But The Corinthium, in its infinite cruelty masked as modernity, devised a new system.
Volunteers now apply—desperate souls vetted by The Elders, the heads of each family.
After approval, they’re auctioned off to the Dukes and Duchesses of The Corinthium.
My father spearheaded this efficiency. Encrypting it and burying it so deep that no one had access to the database but The Elders.
And for that alone, he had the top choice, and he chose her for me.
Her sky blue clashes with my chocolate brown as our eyes meet, and my heart races, each beat louder than the last. Her gaze is glossy with unshed tears. As I step closer, her lips quiver, and when I finally stand before her, she breaks, crying softly.
I shouldn’t speak to her. I heard it is easier if you don’t humanize your sacrifice, but I can’t help it.
“Why?” My voice is low, meant only for her. Her head jerks slightly at the sound, her eyes darting around the room in panic. I cup her face, forcing her gaze back to mine.
“Don’t look at them,” I whisper. “It’s just us. You and me.” A lie, but one I’ll tell to keep her from falling apart.
“Why?” I ask again, my voice softer now.