Chapter 9 Kieren
KIEREN
Seven Months Prior to Present Day,
Beginning of February, Junior Year,
Dornell University
“What do you want, Father?” I ask with annoyance.
Up until this point in my life, my father couldn’t give two shits about me.
As long as my extracurricular proclivities weren’t fodder for the amusement of his gossiping country club buddies, he preferred to leave the parenting to my mother, who in turn preferred to hand me off to my rotating door of nannies.
It’s shocking either of them remembered my name, although I’m fairly certain half the time they forgot my birthday.
Today’s phone call from my father marks the sixth phone call I’ve received from him over the past four weeks, which might amount to more than all the calls he’s made over the past four years.
After the first call, I was pleasantly surprised, believing his need to check in on my well-being was sincere.
After the second call, aggravation began to fester as the reason for his calls became clear.
Then, the third call came, and the old man couldn’t be bothered to even pretend to care.
He wanted to know if I’d set the wheels in motion.
X had made good on his end of the bargain, and now it was my turn.
“Kieren,” he says gruffly. “X tells me you’ve been challenging to pin down.”
I huff my frustration, because that’s bullshit. “I don’t know what the fuck he’s talking about. I’ve returned every email and every text.”
I’ve spoken to the man once, and it was clear from our twelve-minute conversation that he was using a voice manipulation tool.
His instructions were curt and to the point.
I was to reinstate the Ritual of Sacrifice no later than the third full moon of the new year.
X would work out the details with my father to reinvest our clients’ remaining money, which would save our family from financial ruin, and I was to study the lost chapters of the Sigma Charter.
When I asked where I could find said lost chapters, he became irritated, scorning my grandfather for not explaining Sigma’s history to me or my dimwitted father.
As much as I enjoyed hearing another person debase the man who sired me, attacking my grandfather who suffers from dementia is where I draw the line.
Once it became clear to X that I don’t find his snarling threats intimidating, he begrudgingly told me that everything I needed to know could be found in the hidden Room of Sacrifice, which can only be opened with a Sigma Key.
While I understand this X character is to be feared, I also find it difficult to take someone who uses a voice manipulating device seriously. The number of times I had to bite my tongue to prevent myself from calling him Freddie Krueger should be studied by monks.
But, whatever. He gets what he wants, and my family’s reputation lives to fight another day. I should be more concerned than I am about how easy this agreement was to strike, but having regard for the welfare of others has never been my strong suit.
“X tells me your responses to his correspondence have been vague and lagging.”
“Did he now? I see I’m not the only one doing X’s bidding. Has he got you wiping his ass as well?”
“Boy, believe me when I say you’ll never see a dime of your trust fund if you keep up this insubordination,” my father growls.
“Jesus Christ, I’ll text him!” I say, exasperated by my father’s whining. Truly, I don’t know what more information X needs. He knows the date, the time, the place. I’ve done everything by the book. Does he need me to book his travel, too? This man is turning out to be a high-maintenance diva.
“See to it that you do,” my father barks, before ending the call. Part of me believes I should have strangled him when I had the chance. Playing the part of a puppet on a string is not something I do well.
Playing the part of God, however, is electrifying.
I’ve always possessed some degree of inherent power, the result of my surname combined with my natural ability to bend others to my will.
It’s an innate talent, one that doesn’t require much exertion to achieve my desired outcome.
I usually have control over every situation, which is why I was delighted to read that the individual most critical to the Ritual of Sacrifice is the current Sigma president.
Me.
The lost Sigma chapters were enlightening, to say the least. X is lucky to be in the room.
Now I understand what my father meant last summer when he told me X ‘knows about me and my unique position.’ Not only am I president of Sigma’s Dornell chapter, but by way of my grandfather’s ring that functions as both a key and a brand, I can open the hidden Sacrifice Room, and who knows if every Sigma house has one of these?
Hell, I am likely the one and only person in the nation right now who has access to and can open a Sacrifice Room, is the current residing president and therefore able to conduct the Ritual, and, the most important piece of all, has no moral qualms with doing so.
If it worked for my grandfather, it can work for me, and I’d say time is of the essence as it seems whatever good fortune my grandfather earned from participating in these Rituals has run out.
Perhaps my favorite discovery in the Sacrifice Room was the masks. There are additional items we will need to procure, but the masks cannot be replicated. Pussy loves a secret society of mask-wearing elites. I won’t be surprised if we end up with a waitlist.
I can’t wait for Monroe to see me in my mask.
It is by far the most sinister. But seeing Monroe in her mask…
my dick twitches just thinking about her wearing nothing but the black leather puppy mask I had custom-made.
To think I had her mask commissioned months ago, before I realized I would have a mask to wear as well.
Some might call it a coincidence, but I call it destiny.
Disappointment drawls a scowl to my lips.
My phone sits idle in my car’s cupholder, waiting for Monroe to text me back.
I let the first few weeks slide. Both of us were busy with rush and new pledge initiation.
On top of that, I had a list of other priorities.
Now that the full Sigma brotherhood, including all incoming pledges, have been briefed about Sigma Little Sisters, preparations are in motion.
I underestimated the feral ruthlessness of the current Sigma members, having assumed there would be some pushback to the idea of resurrecting a tradition that, at its core, revolves around the degradation of women, but I was pleasantly wrong.
I heard one Sigma brother describe it as sexual liberation, and you know what? He’s right.
Speaking of liberation, I think to myself, as I tug at my jeans, where the fuck is Monroe?
I’ve given her enough leeway. Apparently, the flowers and night we spent together several weeks ago followed by an onslaught of thirsty texts didn’t do the trick. She’s still hesitant, but I have a plan. Clearly, she thinks she can ignore me, and that’s laughably incorrect.
My hands grip the steering wheel, fisting the taught leather.
I. Want. Her.
She was mine before, and she will be mine again.