The Bargain (Spearcrest Legacy #1)

Prologue

The first knife misses my face by about three inches.

It glances off the wall and goes spinning in the air before clattering across the floor.

Rich kids go stumbling back, spilling their drinks, laughing nervously. They’re still new to this kind of bloodsport. But there’s excitement in the shock. An addiction taking root.

Julian Langford, future Earl of Langford, rolls his shoulders and looks around, laughing. He flashes white, perfectly aligned teeth. He’s slim and graceful, pretty as a girl.

Is that what this is all about? Trying to prove he’s not? Maybe then, he’ll finally get invited into the tight-knit Blood Brotherhood—they’re the only ones here worth impressing, and I guess in that sense, Julian and I aren’t so different.

They say you can only get into the Brotherhood by spilling blood—maybe Julian thinks mine will do.

He throws the second knife without warning and without flourish. It takes everybody by surprise, even me.

This time, he doesn’t miss. He doesn’t hit the apple, but that’s not what he was aiming at. Instead, the blade embeds itself in the wall next to my face. I feel the impact of metal on wood before I feel the pain.

The blood is warm—it tickles on its way down my cheek, my jaw.

I don’t flinch.

I’ve spent twelve years in the foster care system. This? This is nothing.

But the crowd, moved by the sight of real blood, shifts.

Hands fly to mouths, glances are exchanged, entangled couples sit up on their gilded divans.

Maybe Julian’s done it—maybe he’s finally bought his way into the Brotherhood.

But then the crowd moves, and I finally see exactly what Julian keeps staring at.

Ah.

So that’s what this is all about.

Desdemona Sutton-Knight. Spearcrest’s golden girl, prefect, star athlete. She’s tall and still, with her long smooth hair a shade of gold rich as honey. Her angel-white dress doesn’t have so much as a fleck or crease on it.

Not a single imperfection. My jaw ticks involuntarily. Unlike me.

She stands without moving a muscle, a flute of champagne in her hand, a delicate tennis bracelet on her wrist. But she’s not watching her boyfriend throwing knives at me.

She’s watching me.

And just like that, I realise I, too, am performing for her.

A cold feeling settles in my stomach. Humiliation and pain are small things to endure for the sake of ambition, but Desdemona isn’t the one I came to perform for. I stare back at her openly: her eyes are a deep, warm brown, but looking into them feels like hitting a hard, unfeeling wall.

I swallow back the unpleasant feeling crawling in my gut. What’s the point in impressing her if she’s not someone I can use?

I look away from her, but I can still feel the weight of her gaze on me as Julian throws the third blade.

He makes an excuse to go find the first blade—the one that missed—and throws that one again.

When we made our deal, Julian said he’d throw three knives.

I’d swallowed my pride and agreed, not just for the money, but because it was the first time I’d been invited to this kind of party.

Can’t look a gift horse in the mouth, I’d told myself. Even if that horse wants to kick your teeth in.

In the end, Julian throws five knives, total. Just because he can. Because he knows I won’t stop him. The climb to the top is steep, and I’m not going to fall just because my hands hurt, right?

The fifth stabs straight into the apple. The apple doesn’t fall; it stays on top of my head, weighed by the blade.

I never flinch. Neither does Desdemona.

She doesn’t cheer or clap like everyone else, and she remains silent as Julian runs over to me, smirking triumphantly.

He plucks the apple off my head by the knife handle, biting into it with a sharp, unpleasant crunch before handing it to Desdemona like an offering.

She takes it but doesn’t bite, her eyes still on me.

I swipe my hand across my slashed-open cheek, fresh blood seeping hotly into my sleeve. Julian winks at Desdemona and rifles through his pockets before finally pulling out a wad of cash. He considers it for a moment, eyes flickering between the money and me, a smile curving his mouth.

And then he tosses the money at my feet.

The room is silent, heavy with held breaths and watchful eyes. Will he do it, they seem to ask. Will he accept the final insult, will he get to his knees?

I suppress a sudden surge of anger, throat tight, teeth gnashing hard.

I should know better than to still hold on to pride: everyone knows that this is how people like him pay people like me.

Whatever I’m given in this life, I have to pick up off the ground, even if I’ve earned it. Maybe especially then.

So I force myself to push it all back–every part of me that screams denial, that demands dignity. Dignity is a luxury; I can survive without it. I crouch down to pick up the cash…

And that’s when Desdemona finally flinches.

A tiny shiver runs through her and her fingers tighten around the stem of her glass. White knuckles and a trembling mouth. Then she tears her gaze off me.

That’s what she finds disgusting? I could laugh. To her, it’s the money that makes this whole thing distasteful. Not the knives, not the blood.

When she glances back at me, I see a muscle tick in her jaw, as if she’s trying to bite back something. Julian has already moved away, but she lingers near me. To my surprise she speaks, barely moving her lips, her voice so low only I can hear it.

“You don’t have to demean yourself like this.”

There’s a twisting in my gut like she’s just stabbed me in the stomach. This time, I can’t help it, I laugh. Low and mocking, under my breath. I straighten, ignoring her words, which are somehow more insulting than anything her boyfriend’s done so far.

Glancing down, I flip pointedly through Julian’s cash, counting shamelessly. It’s all there: five hundred pounds total. And now, the corners of the notes are smeared with blood.

Disappointed or annoyed, Desdemona’s already looked away.

Now, she’s listening to her boyfriend loudly telling a hunting story featuring his uncle, a former minister.

The Blood Brotherhood watches like amused wolves—who do they disdain more?

Julian, for not being one of them despite all his money and power?

Or me, the worthless nobody willing to be disfigured for some cash?

Other rich kids are pouring drinks, laughing, kissing. The party’s already moved on from the game, already bored with the sight of my blood. Guess I’ve served my purpose, then. I did what I came here to do, and I’m not about to overstay my welcome.

On my way out, I make sure to go right past Desdemona.

She’s standing near the doorway, Julian’s arm wrapped around her waist. She doesn’t meet my gaze as I make my way to the door, but she visibly stiffens.

When I pass her by, I brush her waist with my hand, smearing a crimson line across the bodice of her pristine white dress.

Her skin is warm beneath the smooth fabric. I don’t turn to see her reaction as my palm drags lightly over her, but her muscles contract beneath my fingers. Then I let my hand fall away, and I cross the threshold without looking back.

I know it’s petty, but I couldn’t care less.

She’ll know exactly whose bloody hand left that mark on her—that her boyfriend might have taken something from me, but I took something from him, too.

It’s almost enough to wash away the bitter taste of humiliation lingering in my mouth. I walk away, grinning to myself.

I might be disgusting to look at. But now, you’ll remember me.