The Initiation

by Nikki Sloane

  TABLE OF CONTENTS

  ONE

  TWO

  THREE

  FOUR

  FIVE

  SIX

  SEVEN

  EIGHT

  NINE

  TEN

  ELEVEN

  TWELVE

  THIRTEEN

  FOURTEEN

  FIFTEEN

  SIXTEEN

  SEVENTEEN

  EIGHTEEN

  NINETEEN

  TWENTY

  Other Books by Nikki Sloane

  Acknowledgments

  About the Author

  Copyright

  ONE

  RAIN STREAKED ACROSS THE WINDOW, blurring the view of the landscape out the back seat of the car as it hurried my sister Emily and me past the front gate. The drive leading up to the Hale estate was long, straight, and lined with tall, manicured hedges. It was a tunnel of green. The only escape was the impressive fountain at the end where the driveway circled, and the historic stone mansion loomed beyond.

  I clutched the book in my lap tighter, my fingers tensing on the edges of the hardcover, making the dust jacket crinkle against the skirt of my dress. The sound drew my sister’s attention, and she shot me one of her famous disapproving looks. It was the same one my father had wilted under earlier this evening when he’d suggested Emily find something more appropriate to wear.

  Her cocktail dress was as black as the limo we were traveling in. The fabric plunged deep down her chest, flaunting her impressive cleavage. The flouncy skirt was cut short in the front, teasing well above her knees, and hemmed longer in the back. It showed off her legs and the precariously tall heels she wore. Her lips were stained a vivid red. She had blue undertones in her pale skin, so it looked terrific on her.

  In theory, that same lip color would work on me. My sister was only fifteen months older than I was, and although we weren’t twins, people often asked if we were. Except we were easier to tell apart these days. On a whim, I’d dyed my hair an unnatural shade of deep green during spring break. It had faded since the last time I’d had it colored, but the hue was still there.

  As I’d discovered with the hair color, I could pull off bold colors like Emily. We had the same sable hair and crystal blue eyes, but in stark contrast to her, tonight I wore a white dress with lace cap sleeves. It was fitting. I was the weird, virginal loner, and she was the confident, sexy bombshell.

  We looked nothing alike on the inside.

  She was friendly, quick-witted, and a pleaser. She had a knack for putting people at ease.

  I had the ability to make everyone uncomfortable with my awkward bluntness but had learned not to care what others thought. My sister was the darling of the social scene, and she was destined to be the queen of Cape Hill—one of the wealthiest villages in Massachusetts. It had bay views, sprawling estates, and private golf courses, and each year the housing market climbed closer to matching the Hamptons.

  My destiny, however, was to be left alone. I could do whatever I wanted, which suited me just fine. I’d never have to fulfill obligations or handle the family duties. I’d been given my mother’s maiden name as my first name to appease my rich grandparents. That was the only responsibility I had to carry.

  “Marist.” Emily placed her hand on my wrist and eyed the new Greek mythology book in my lap. “If that doesn’t fit in your purse, don’t take it inside. You can’t show up to a party with a book to read—and definitely not to Royce’s party.”

  Because Royce Hale was a modern-day Gatsby. He’d thrown ragers nearly every weekend when he’d been in high school. I was several years behind him, but they’d still talked about it at our elite prep school, long after he’d gone off to Harvard.

  I stared at Emily as the car promenaded around the fountain. When it pulled to a stop, my sister’s dangling earrings swayed and glinted in the fading sunlight.

  “It fits in my purse,” I said softly. “Don’t worry.”

  Even though I didn’t give a shit what people thought of me, this was a huge night for my sister. I wasn’t about to screw it up for her. I was fiercely protective of her, and she was my best friend.

  The door on Emily’s side opened and a man stood at the ready, an oversized black umbrella in one hand, and his other extended to help her out. “Good evening,” he said.

  As she took his hand, I shoved the book into my bag. I watched the pair of them as he ushered her up the stone steps, sheltered under the umbrella so her hair and makeup wouldn’t be ruined by the drizzle.

  I was out of the car before she’d gone inside, and when the man turned and saw me walking toward the house in the rain, he sprinted in a panic, rushing to get me safely under his protection. It was ridiculous. Besides the fact it was basically misting, no one really cared how I looked—most of all me. I was only here for my sister’s benefit. The invitation had been for both Northcott sisters, and it would have been rude for me to decline.

  Besides, part of me was curious. I’d been to the Hale’s house many times over the years, but never for one of Royce’s parties.

  The usher’s voice boomed when I stepped through the front door. “Miss Marist Northcott.”

  It stunned me motionless. Had he legitimately announced me? Like this was some social ball from the 1800s? I waited for a chaperone to appear and pair me up for a stilted dance with a suitor, but thankfully no one came.

  There were a few people milling about in the foyer, but no one I recognized. Conversations and laughter buzzed from the next room over, echoing in the large entrance. I faced the grand staircase that split halfway up, running away from the enormous painting of the Hale family centered over the landing. I stifled the urge to slink up the staircase and away from the horror of having to mingle.

  Emily was just inside the front sitting room. She snatched two glasses of a bubbly drink from a waiter’s tray as he passed by and then held one out without even turning to glance over her shoulder at me. I took the glass and slipped by her side.

  I was only twenty, but no one cared whether it was legal. We’d all been drinking since high school.

  “Christ, I think half the company’s kids are here,” she muttered beneath her glass the moment before she took a sip.

  I surveyed the crowd and came to the same conclusion.

  Hale Banking and Holding Company had started out as a simple bank, but over the last one hundred and fifty years had grown into so much more. Now the eighth largest bank in the world, they had financial and wealth management, commercial banking, and were pressing deeper into the global markets.

  At the helm of HBHC sat Macalister Hale.

  He controlled an enormous empire and was barely fifty years old.

  I’d only spoken directly to him once. He was tall, broad-shouldered, and handsome, but also the kind of man who made you feel like a nuisance. Like you had no business being near him and using up any of the air in the room to breathe because that was his air. It, along with everything else, belonged to him.

  Mr. Hale didn’t appear to be around. It was unlikely, anyway. This was Royce’s party to celebrate his graduation from Harvard Business School. His father had better things to do than hang out with college kids on a rainy Saturday night.

  Conversations bounced off the dark paneled walls, high ceilings, and hardwood floor; the sound was too loud to be soaked up by the Persian rugs and expensive couches. I lingered at Emily’s side as a shadow while she mingled. She made effortless small talk with a dozen people I recognized from school or our father’s job.

  We believed Charles Northcott, our father, was on the cusp of making the board of directors at HBHC now that Mr. Steinway had retired. Twenty percent of our sleepy Cape Hill town was a company employee.

  I didn’t miss the way my sist
er’s gaze subtly darted around the room, searching for—but not finding—the man of the hour. Royce would emerge later when all pretenses of this civilized soiree were dropped. Eventually, people would indulge in the hard liquor and the best drugs their overpriced dealer could procure for them. Then the party would officially start, and Royce would make his appearance.

  Emily latched a hand on my elbow and pulled me close, bringing her lips right by my ear. “Where the fuck is he? I’m dying here.”

  “You want me to go look for him?” Oh, God, please say no.

  “No,” she sighed.

  Relief swept through me. I made other people uncomfortable, and yet Royce Hale? He seemed to be the only one able to do it to me. His piercing blue eyes were always hungry and relentless. Like his father, he dominated all the air in the room.

  I didn’t envy Emily’s situation. Our mother had been best friends with Mrs. Hale, and before she had passed away, they’d always joked that their children would marry. Even after her death, our parents had remained friends—if you could call it that—with the Hale family.

  Arranged marriages didn’t typically exist in our tightly woven circle, but there was an unspoken understanding between our families. Perhaps it was to honor his late wife’s wish, but Macalister Hale had decided long ago it would be advantageous for Royce and Emily to partner. They were a good match in every area. Wealth, intelligence, looks. Together, Royce and Emily would be the unstoppable power couple, and now that he’d finished school, it was time for him to make his move.

  It should be easy. Royce had essentially been granted first right of refusal over my sister.

  The situation was sort of fucked up, but Emily didn’t protest. In fact, she didn’t seem to mind at all. She liked the idea of dating him.

  The thought made me uneasy. Like an itch that wouldn’t go away no matter how much you scratched.

  I hovered beside my sister for an eternity, wearing a perpetually amused expression on my face to mask that I was dying of boredom on the inside. I didn’t care Rachel Sanderson was going to do a semester abroad in Spain, or Eric Hineman had a venture capitalist interested in investing in his dumb start-up idea. I did my time beside Emily until she finally gave a slight nod. It was her signal I was about to be released.

  She dug out her tube of red lipstick and held it up. She’d pestered me the whole car ride tonight to put it on, but I’d refused. I’d won the battle, but I was about to lose the war.

  “Bitch,” I groaned under my smile and snatched the tube from her.

  She laughed. “It’ll look amazing on you.”

  Once I’d smeared on the red lipstick and returned it, I stole away through the kitchen. Up an empty back staircase I went, seeking out a quiet room where I could read until Emily would text me it was time to go. No one would miss the weird Northcott sister with oddly green tinged hair and bright red lips.

  The first room I came to was dark. The door was open, just a sliver, but enough for me to see it was occupied. A girl was perched on the edge of a bed, her dress pulled down around her waist and her pale breasts undulating with her shuddering breaths. A man, his back to me, was on his knees before her, his head buried between her spread thighs. She threaded a hand in his hair and clenched it tight as she gasped in contentment.

  I hurried past the open door with my cheeks burning, and a rope of desire tightened inside me. Was it envy, or curiosity, or both? I wanted to know what that felt like. The sensation of someone besides myself giving me pleasure.

  I was so fucking curious about sex.

  But I wasn’t going to find out tonight, here on the mostly empty second floor of the Hale estate.

  My footsteps were quieted by the plush carpeting as I wandered down the corridor. The walls were covered in more intricate paneling. The whole enormous house felt masculine and cold, and I couldn’t imagine growing up here. Not that I pictured Royce, or his younger brother Vance, as the poor little rich boys. They were quite the opposite. The Hale men were cunning, ruthless predators.

  But all this space wasn’t so much secluded as it was isolated. Did they ever get lonely? Macalister and their stepmother were workaholics and never around. In fact, Alice Hale was currently at a spa for “an intensive cleanse,” but there were whispers. Rumors that Macalister had put her in rehab.

  I tried several doors until I found one that didn’t lead to a bedroom, but a library. Or maybe it was a home office. A warm toned writing desk was placed across from a marble fireplace.

  I didn’t turn on the six-armed chandelier overhead. Instead, I flicked on the desk lamp, which cast soft amber light up onto the shelves of books. The gold embossed titles on the spines glinted back at me. The bookcases spanned every inch of the room except for the curtain-draped window at the back, where bronze velvet fabric pooled on the floor.

  It smelled like books in here. Like leather, and logs that had been burned during the winter, and . . .

  Power.

  I fell in love with the library in one slow, wonderous blink. There was a brown arm chair with a matching ottoman backlit by the window, and I was drawn to the spot like a magnet.

  I curled up there, tucking my legs beneath the scratchy crinoline of my white dress, and pulled my mythology book from my oversized purse.

  Outside, the sun set and darkened the room, but time halted as I read. My obsession with mythology had begun a long time ago. I liked how twisted the stories were. Murder, and betrayal, and jealous wrath . . . all the worst traits were displayed in the Gods’ behavior, and they were unapologetic about it.

  It was fascinating.

  The book was so engrossing, I didn’t hear the door open, or click shut, or the footsteps that approached. It was only the unnerving sense I was being watched that caught my attention. I glanced up from my book to find a pair of hungry eyes staring at me.

  TWO

  MY LUNGS SEIZED with an awful, cut-off sound.

  Royce Hale’s thick, wavy brown hair was swept back over his high-arched eyebrows and hypnotic eyes. He was tall and trim with broad shoulders and stood with his hands hooked in his black suit pants pockets, his thumbs peeking out. His posture was causal, yet it wasn’t a word I’d use to describe him. Perhaps oppressive, or invasive, or . . .

  Sexy.

  I narrowed my eyes. No, he was only sexy if I found arrogant pricks appealing, and I’d decided long ago I didn’t. Besides, he was Emily’s. Over the years, the only attention he’d given me was when he wanted to be mean. It was entirely possible he didn’t remember my name.

  “Marist Northcott,” he said, his tone like sweet liquor with a sharp, bitter aftertaste.

  The jerk remembered me. I lowered the book in my lap. “My sister was looking for you.”

  The corner of his mouth tugged upward. It wasn’t exactly a smile, but he was amused. “I bet she was.”

  I gave him a slow, plain blink, letting him know I wasn’t going to engage. Lots of women fell all over him, but I wasn’t one of them.

  He took a step deeper into the room. The tie around his neck was the same green as his daddy’s money and the knot at his collar was askew. Had he loosened it recently, or not quite finished getting dressed? Perhaps he’d been the man on his knees in the other room, making the woman moan. His suit was the same shade of black, but his hair wasn’t rumpled.

  “Did you find Emily?” I asked.

  He sobered. Something ghosted through his eyes, but it was gone too fast for me to recognize the emotion. “Yeah.”

  The single word carried an unmistakable finality to it. This was something he didn’t want to discuss. Instead, all he did was trap me with the gravity of his gaze.

  This was what I remembered most about him, how he’d stare intensely. He didn’t break eye contact, didn’t flinch. He peered at you as if it were only a matter of time before he discovered all your secrets. Everything you tried to hide or were ashamed of, he’d find it. His scrutiny always forced me to look away first. I had to run before he learned just ho
w exposed I felt around him. He’d take it as an advantage and somehow exploit it.

  He was so fucking comfortable holding my gaze too long, staring into the depths of me. Like me, he typically said whatever he was thinking. Honesty was a great trait, until it wasn’t. Too much of it and it cut painfully deep. As acute as his stare was, I tried not to wither.

  “Congrats on your MBA,” I said flatly.

  He waved my insincere pleasantry away like it was an annoying fly. “It must be some book to have you hiding up here.”

  “I don’t like parties.”

  It came out before I thought better of it, but Royce didn’t seem offended. “Yeah, me either.”

  What was he talking about? “Do you know how many times my sister snuck home after curfew from one of your parties? If you don’t like them, why’d you throw so many?”

  He considered my question. “The bigger the party, the more freedom I had.” He grinned. “Fuck, half the time I wasn’t even here.”

  He’d revealed it like a secret, and an unwanted thrill shot through me. If this wasn’t widely known, why would he share it? Everything in Cape Hill was about being elite and exclusive. Money was easy to come by, but power was harder, and knowledge was its own form of currency.

  “What are you reading?” His question was simple, but a demand, nonetheless. His father was the king of Cape Hill, which made Royce a prince, and I was merely a subject in his castle. So, I was forced to hold the book up for him to see. His eyes sharpened on the gold and white artwork on the cover. He sounded dubious. “Mythology?”

  I nodded then dropped my gaze to the pages, striving to look indifferent. I couldn’t read as he stood over me, but I’d act like I was. I could pretend I didn’t smell his cologne or was wondering if he’d just finished fucking the girl down the hall and was prowling for his next meal.

  “Is that for a summer class or something?” he asked.

  “No.”

  As I tried to focus on the page, his confusion was distracting. “Why are you reading it?”

  “Because I want to?”

  My tone was a bit more pointed than I meant for it to be, and the silence that hung in its aftermath was taut. I glanced up to find Royce’s eyebrow arched halfway up his forehead. He didn’t like my sass.