2. Dorian
2
Dorian
B astian opens the door, impatient as ever, and of course, my dramatic twin pulls it slowly, like we’re in some horror movie. I’ll give him his due—we’re not far off. Perhaps less horror and more violence. I doubt they would even show a movie with all the things we do. Our life isn’t for the weak; honestly, not even the strong survive here. You have to be a sadistic kind of vicious to thrive in our world. Our reputation is so terrifying, crime lords tremble at the mere mention of our names. Our bloodline breeds apex predators, and the rest get slaughtered. Everyone, that is, apart from our angel.
Our little sister had the misfortune of being born prey, something that would have been wiped out the moment she showed she couldn’t stomach the violence that comes with our last name. Fortunately for her, she was born beautiful, something our father took more and more notice of as she grew up. Women in our bloodline receive the gift of being brides, either to the highest bidder or to the last man standing in a room covered in blood. He would have made a lot of money and forged important connections if it wasn’t for the simple fact that she wasn’t his to give away.
My claim on her happened at birth, the second she came screaming into the world and took her mother from it. Lucinda Stone died before she got to even hold her darling daughter in her arms, bleeding to death from complications. At six years old, I was the first one to hold her and claim her as mine. A saint before she even took her first breath by sending that poisonous woman to her grave.
Technically, my dear sweet sister is more like my step-sister, or adoptive, depending how you look at it. The cunning viper my father married after my mother disappeared was already pregnant. She saw her opportunity to rise higher in the bloodline and grasped it tight in her sharp, red-painted talons. She stomped over the competition, stabbing her Louboutin heels into their backs, all with a sweet smile on her face. My father was obsessed with her, so much so that I’ve often wondered if my mother’s disappearance wasn’t a calculated plan on his part.
In his foolish want for beauty, he let that viper of a woman make a mockery out of him. She was in the early stages of pregnancy when he declared his intention to marry her. He realised his mistake too late and had to choose between exposing her deceit or acknowledging the child as his own. The former was never an option; he would have lost his standing in the family, demoted to nothing more than muscle and a cautionary tale. He claimed the child as his, and that was it. No one questioned him, so sweet Octavia became mine.
I wasn’t the only one who laid claim to her. I saw the twinkle of joy in my twin’s eyes as he gazed at our sister, covered in her mother’s blood, screaming into the night, waiting for warmth from a woman who would have never given it to her. We were besotted with the little murderer; she was a dark angel born just for us, a sweet doll for two little boys who were desperate for a shining light in a world of darkness.
Father kept her as his daughter; she was part of our bloodline even if she wasn’t his. Lucinda was his third cousin, twice removed, and he would never abandon his bloodline, even if he had nothing to do with her. Octavia knows none of this, and that’s the way it will always stay.
He left her to the nannies and the help to raise, but he also left her to us. We were the ones he put in charge of her when we were just six years old. We were Stone men in the making and had to learn about the responsibilities our bloodline demanded of us. We didn’t get the luxury of a childhood, the comfort of love that a family is supposed to give. We got nothing, but from the moment I set eyes on my dark angel, I vowed she would have everything we didn’t. She was mine, and no one was going to take her away.
That thought didn’t extend to my brother. He is me and I am him, each one half of a shattered soul. We didn’t need to exchange words to know what the other thought; we just knew. That day, whether she wanted it or not, we tied her to us, and no one was going to break it. She was ours to protect, ours to care for, and then, she became more. Our protectiveness changed, our possessiveness developed, she grew up, and she became ours in a way neither of us expected.
At the ball held for her eighteenth birthday, I noticed our father watching her, saw his cunning, calculating mind swirling. He didn't see the child he was tricked into claiming; he saw a girl turning into a beautiful woman, surrounded by darkness and depravity yet radiating an exquisite light. Eyes flocked to her; everyone in the room took notice, and I saw all their greedy wants. There is nothing more tempting than a pure light of goodness smothered in a sea of darkness.
I kept a close eye on him from then on, monitoring his every movement, but he was watching us too. He saw the little games we started to play, how we were twisting her mind, carving out the perfect path for her to fall down the dark hole with nothing to hold on to but us. He saw everything, and he acted when I least expected it, sending her away to a boarding academy, making sure her relocation all happened underground. It took us three years to find her, but eventually, we did, and now, our dear father is rotting in a hole of his own making.
His downfall was brought on by himself; he could have avoided all of this when I offered him a deal the night before her twentieth birthday. He declined, and it was the last mistake he will ever make. He tried to create leashed monsters, but I’ve never been fond of being tied up. He could have remained at the top for a few more years. All he had to do was give us back what was ours. Now, he has no choice, and neither does she.
“She’s here,” Bastian says, the door open wide, letting in the frostbitten air. Lightning fills the sky, illuminating Bastian’s feral grin of excitement. Wet footsteps smack across the ground, getting closer and closer until two shadowed bodies fill the doorway.
Hawthorne doesn’t hover, gently pushing Octavia over the threshold and out of the rain before scurrying back to the car. The jagged scar running down his cheek catches my eye, and I can’t help the cruel grin that pulls at my lips. There are more scars littering Hawthorne’s body; everyone involved in the taking of my little sister bears those scars, and this is only the beginning. The dead ones are the lucky ones. The ones left alive have learned what happens when they interfere with what is mine.
Octavia stands shivering in the doorway, her arms wrapped around her plump waist, platinum blonde, waist-length hair blowing in the wind. Her nipples are hard, showing through her thin white silk blouse, and Bastian lets out a small feral growl, biting his bottom lip as he stares.
I clear my throat in a reprimand, raising an eyebrow as he scowls. Octavia smiles widely at the two of us, her eyes sparkling with joy, but as she notices both of our eyes dropping to her chest, the smile drops. She fidgets from side to side, a frown pulling at her forehead as she bites the inside of her cheek. Her gaze drops to the floor in a demure and scared manner, and that certainly won’t do. I have not waited three years for her to fear us now.
Thunder rolls through the air, lightning illuminating the moorlands once again, a storm brewing the night our dark angel returns. My polished black shoes press against the tip of her wet heels as I stand in front of her, the top of her head reaching my chest. A wave of strawberry and vanilla hits my senses, and I suppress the growl that threatens to break free. My dick hardens in my trousers, throbbing with the need to rip open her blouse and pull one of her taut nipples into my mouth, biting them until I taste blood.
But that is what Bastian would do, not me. I’m more in control of my needs. I understand that this will take a bit of time. I have the patience he does not, and that is why we agreed I would take the lead.
Slowly grazing my hands up her arms, I smirk as she shivers at my touch, keeping her gaze on the ground. Her breathing grows louder, her chest heaving, pushing her breasts forward until I feel her hardened nipples scraping against my shirt. I run my fingers across her cheek, her skin soft to the touch. She stands straighter, her spine stiff and hands clenched at her side. I place my fingers under her chin, lifting her head until her golden amber eyes meet mine.
I smirk, leaning down until my nose brushes against hers, tasting the minty freshness of her breath, her pouty lips dropping open. Her eyes widen until she stops breathing all together.
“Welcome home, little sister.”