IT’S GIVING COMMUNITY THEATER #3
My fight triggers more aggression in the remaining ones. Wynter doesn’t kill, but she gets first blood by outright stabbing her Gaul in the shoulder. When he swipes at her feet, taking her to the ground despite her winning the bout, I stride onto the arena and hold out a hand for her to take.
Wide eyes catch mine, but she accepts the support and lets me drag her to her feet.
Both of us ignore the chittering from the crowd.
But fuck them—girls gotta stick together.
The other fights take ten minutes and the opponents stagger through their rounds, clearly untrained for such scenarios.
At the end, the main man, Alaric, intones, “Step forward, Hispania IV.”
Nervously, I obey. But a look at Maxim tells me not to worry.
Yeah. Right.
A Veronian appears at my side, a red cloak in his arms. He slides it over my shoulders to the sound of thundering applause.
“What happens within these walls,” Alaric intones, “will forever stay within these walls.”
The crowd stamps their feet and the noise races around the amphitheater.
But my eyes are only for Maxim, who graces me with the deadliest of smiles.
“Hispania IV is now a potentiate—the first to become one at this stage in over a hundred years! This red cloak guarantees its wearer will make it to the final phase of initiation. Otherwise, you must prove your worth to us if you wish to join or surpass her.” He spreads his arms wide. “Vitam impendere vero.”
“Vitam impendere vero,” the crowd chants on repeat as they file out of the stands.
The segue from fighting to a banquet is surreal. Especially as the feast is a Bacchanalian display of wealth, power, and abundance.
Maxim arches a brow when a large tin of caviar is unveiled in front of us, pots of diced egg yolks and whites, onions, sour cream, and tiny blinis alongside it. He snatches the lid and reads it with a jeer. “French caviar. Posers.”
I have to laugh. “Don’t be a snob.”
“Hardly,” he protests. “And this isn’t about being patriotic either. I prefer Iranian.”
“Be careful. Russia will pull your passport.”
“Good,” is his succinct reply.
My nose wrinkles as I stare at the caviar. “I feel guilty eating it.”
“They die so we might live.”
“Nice reasoning for butchering twelve-year-old fish so you can pinch their young!” I scoff, watching as he loads up a blini with a mother-of-pearl spoon. “If you ever want me to kiss you, don’t eat that first.”
When he coughs, I hide my delight at taking him by surprise, especially as his cheeks bellow and he struggles to catch his breath.
I pass him a glass of water as he justifies, “That’s what breath mints are for.”
“I’ll still taste fish.” I prod at the dish of onions with my nail. “And onions.”
When he carefully places the mother-of-pearl spoon on the dish and shoves it away, my lips twitch.
“Are you going to turn me into a vegetarian, katyonok?”
“I like bacon too much to be a vegetarian. And burgers.” The self-deprecation is out in full force. “And plenty of other things that I shouldn’t.”
“Life would be tedious without vices.”
“Is bacon a vice?”
“I think it counts, yes.”
I drum my fingers on the table, mimicking the beat of the orchestra—Tchaikovsky, my least favorite composer because he was my father’s favorite.
The adrenaline buzz persists, humming through my veins, and irritatingly enough, it’s also following the rhythm of Symphony No. 4, which might mean I’m due a heart attack at some point.
When I crash, it’s going to be as brutal as the cymbal clash in that godawful composition.
“I wonder how they eat without getting their hoods caught in their meal,” I ponder as all the attendees remain hooded.
“I’m sure they’ll cope.”
“Nobody’s lost their appetite.”
“Why should they? This is their bread and butter.”
“Meaning?”
“Tonight wasn’t the main event. Merely an accompaniment.”
His comment acts like a fist around my throat, making it harder to breathe. To swallow.
I reach for the glass of red wine in front of me and take care while drinking it.
The hit of alcohol has me working my neck from side to side, but the tension doesn’t abate.
He notices. Of course. “You should eat. It will settle your stomach. The first is always… a lesson.”
I can hear in his tone that it’s a lesson he never wanted me to learn. Regret is there, resignation too.
But I can’t say that I feel guilty, or that I feel remorse.
Maybe I’m more like Maxim than my sisters would be comfortable with?
Because of his experience, I eat a few bites of the salad garnish beside a spiced snapper. The meal’s like a fancy potluck, dishes plunked here and there, little to no order. I grew up eating this way so there’s comfort in that even if I’m well outside my comfort zone.
“Thank you for being here, Maxim,” I whisper from behind my glass of wine.
“There’s nowhere I’d rather be, katyonok.”
My walls lower, exhaustion slamming into me because I know I’m safe, that I’m not alone, that he will protect me. And not just from the nasty looks the legacies send me, the bitter twists to mouths as they covet the red cloak I’m wearing.
“FYI, I prefer katyonok to pchelka.”
“Of course you do.”
There’s that indulgence again and boy, do I appreciate how it stabilizes me.
What also helps is when a soft hand, skin silky, slips into mine. The gesture is unexpected, but I bridge my fingers with Wynter’s nonetheless.
We didn’t know each other before this, but a friendly face in this melee is more than I ever expected and she doesn’t have Maxim.
Our hands stay knotted throughout the rest of the meal and the comfort it provides is incalculable.
I’m an ally, we silently tell each other.
And in this dogfight, where being a woman is a handicap, that matters.
Some of the legacies get drunk on the expensive wine, and though the brothers remain hooded, I can sense their disapproval.
Wynter and I barely eat. Maxim enjoys a chowder of some sort and roasted chicken with orzo and asparagus. The scent alone makes me want to heave.
Maxim goes so far as to talk to the man next to him in a language I don’t recognize, which has me filing away the information for another time.
Hours later, one of the brothers stands. “Fini.”
And that’s it. It’s over.
Chairs scrape against the tiled floor. Though some of them had to be mid-conversation prior to that declaration, chatter falls to nothing.
In silence, we traipse out.
It’s a weird end to a weird night.
The crowd heads in one direction and we’re swept up with them in a tidal wave of cloaks. It’s claustrophobic. Until I spot a lone woman amid the masses and I realize she is our guide out of this place—thank God.
“To shield the brothers’ anonymity,” Maxim murmurs in my ear.
It makes sense. It’s not like they’re going to leave in their hooded cloaks or remove them in front of us.
I slip out of the cloak and pass it to another woman, who keeps her eyes locked on the floor.
“Whenever you are called to the lodge, you are to retrieve this cloak,” she informs me in a whisper before allowing me to grab my personal items.
Once we’re standing outside, I can take my first full breath since this damn thing started. There’s a chill in the air, but it feels good against my overheated skin.
“Do you need help getting home, Wynter?”
“Oh, no, sir. I’ll be fine—”
“No, you won’t,” I insert, relieved Maxim made the suggestion. If my head was screwed on properly, I would have too. “Is someone coming to pick you up?”
“I was going to get a rideshare.”
Handing my purse to me, Maxim clucks his tongue. “Not tonight.”
With a click of his fingers, his town car appears. He waves at the driver and opens the door for us both. I climb in behind her and he seats himself beside me. After knocking on the roof of the car once Wynter’s given him her address, we slide into the late-night traffic.
“That was mental,” I exclaim.
“You’re catching Britishisms from O’Donnelly,” Maxim remarks.
“O’Donnelly. I know him. Seamus, right? We have constitutional law together.”
“He’s my housemate.” When Wynter glances at Maxim, I hide a smile at the million questions in her eyes. “Are you okay? You looked as freaked out as me in there.”
She chokes on her words.
Maxim, taking pity on her, observes, “One night can change everything.”
I elbow him in the side. “Helpful!”
“Isn’t it true?”
“Yes, all right. It’s true. But don’t rub it in.”
Wynter croaks out a laugh. “Whatever I expected…”
I catch her eye and finish, “…it was worse.”
When she rubs her hands over her arms, Maxim asks, “Are you cold?”
“I’m fine. Thank you, though. For asking. And for, well, this.” Nervous that he caught her, she stops and fidgets with her phone instead.
“You’re welcome. You should be gentle with yourself tonight,” he advises, his tone soft. Kind.
I have firsthand experience of both, but it’s strange seeing him be nice to someone other than me.
The added nuance has me leaning into him as she stutters, “I-I don’t…”
“Is it the first time you’ve seen someone die?”
Her gaze catches his. “You know who my father is, don’t you?”
“Of course.” Maxim shrugs. "I’m also aware you didn’t grow up in New Jersey.”
Her brow furrows. “How do you know that?”
“I ran your name.”
“How did you…” She swallows. “Actually, I prefer to be in the dark. This is me. Just drop me off here, please.”
“Of course.”
I grab her hand as she snatches at the door handle and I reel off my number.
That she turns her phone over and types it in tells me I’m right to see her as an ally.
“Speak soon,” she rasps before escaping into the night.
“Who’s her father?” I ask immediately, keeping an eye on her as she crosses the street at a run and darts into a building.
“A Satan’s Sinner.”
“An MC brother?” I wheeze.
“The Prez, no less.”
The news further reassures me. Her father’s no saint, so she can’t be too repulsed by my actions.
Unaware of my thoughts, Maxim speaks with the driver, who immediately jumps out and scampers away.
“Does it get boring?”
He opens his door then pauses. “What?”
“People jumping when you tell them to?”
A sly smirk makes an appearance on that handsome face. “Never.”
“Is he going to deal with Shay’s car?”
“Da.”