by Amo Jones
“I’m Tillie,” the pink-haired girl says gently. She points to the guy next to her. “This is Nate, the two people who just walked out were Scarlet and Hector Hayes, and that—” Her finger lands on the guy who is sitting on the chair with his leg propped on the coffee table. “Is Bishop Hayes. That is Eli, but you can ignore him.” Eli snickers under his breath as she carries on. “Hunter and Chase are the older generation, so you probably won’t see much of them, but they’re around a lot—” she rambles, but my eyes are stuck on Bishop, who seems to be watching me carefully. I hold his stare obstinately, ignoring the fact it’s like an open flame in a dark room. Finally, I pull my gaze away from him. “—so what else did I miss?” Tillie asks, oblivious to my wane of attention. I don’t know what she was talking about because my mind was trapped in one dimension and one dimension only.
“Ah,” I murmur, shuffling on my feet. My palms itch. Maybe it wasn’t a good idea, me coming down here after all.
“She doesn’t know anything, Little Terror, shut up,” Brantley growls from the other side of the room. It wasn’t harsh, or loud, or angry. His tone had a dismissive, roguish edge to it. Maybe he didn’t need to yell to be heard, people just listened. It was obvious that was what was happening right now.
Tillie cocks her head to the side until her pink hair falls over one slender shoulder. “Well, that has to change, and you know it.”
I’m confused.
Everyone danced around me to the heavy sound of Korn. I loved Korn. Their music was enticing, exhilarating, and, if I was being honest, kind of exhausting, but it pulsed through me anyway, relentless with its mission. I just wanted to feel. To get lost within the sea of sweaty teenagers and to pretend I was just like them. So like them. Even if I knew, deep down, that I wasn’t, and if they didn’t know I wasn’t, they would have thought something was wrong because everyone who came near me, always made sure to stay just far enough away to not lose their fingers. If anyone had gone out of their way to ask me, I would have told them that they’re wasting their time fearing for their lives. They can dance up on me. No one is here watching. No one.
I raised my arms above my head and moved my body to the menacing tone of Jonathan Davis. I wanted to have sex with his voice. Wrap him between my legs and swallow him whole. A smile traced my lips at that thought, and I slowly peeled my eyes open. That smile only grew when I noticed two guys sitting on a sofa, watching me. They wore dark clothes, but one had white sneakers on and the other black boots. One had tattoos running up an arm while the other seemed to have none. They had the same build, only one was taller, broader, and angrier, while the other just seemed simply disinterested. He could pretend he wasn’t interested all he wanted, but I felt the flames of his eyes lick me from my waist down.
I flung my hair over my shoulder and slowly made my way toward them. I was confident, to put it lightly, and that probably—no, definitely—came from always getting everything I wanted in life. That amongst other things.
Once I reached the edge of the sofa, I looked down at the two boys. “Well? Are you both going to sit there and stare, or are you going to show me if you can fuck me like your eyes just did?”
Brantley
Secrets. The Elite Kings were notorious for keeping them, hiding them away where little girls couldn’t find them, and then shoving it down their throats when it was convenient. It’s how we checked if you had a gag reflex. It was what we did. We spilled the blood of our enemies over the same floor we all learned to walk on. This was our life. Some assumed we were a secret society, but that’s not it either. Secret societies have boundaries, we have none. TEKC was formed generations and generations ago between the founding fathers. Bishop’s great, great, great whatever pop was the Don, the fucking creator, along with mine, Nate’s, and Eli’s. Evil didn’t fade out through the generations; it only grew stronger with every spawn. We found new ways to torment our enemies. I mean… just ask Madison.
Tried it on Tillie, didn’t work.
Tillie, who just announced to all of us that she’s pregnant.
Everyone is excited. Fucking ecstatic. Nate’s arms are around her, his hand on her stomach protectively. The Elite Kings’ next generation is about to kick off, which gives the rest of us roughly one year to knock someone up if we want our lineage carried on.
Not fucking likely. Knew that I was cutting off the Vitiosis line long before we killed my dad.
“Bran Bran…” Tillie teases from the other side of the room. She thinks I hate the name. Admittedly, I don’t care. She can call me whatever she wants. Bishop’s dad, mom, and Nate’s parents have long since left, leaving just Nate, me, Bishop, Tillie, and—my eyes fall on Saint. Her. My fucking five minutes.
“I’m not congratulating you, Tillie,” I answer flatly, moving away from the fact that Saint walked herself down into this mess that I call my family. Having her in the same vicinity as these savages has the hairs on the back of my neck standing straight. When she came downstairs, no one batted an eye. But the range of looks I’m getting from Bishop and Nate is enough to tell me that the conversation isn’t over. It won’t be. The reason why nothing can ever come between Kings is because we never invite shit in.
I yank the cork off my bottle with my teeth and pour the thirty-year-old Japanese whiskey straight into my glass.
I’m watching everyone around me, but my attention is solely on Saint.
Tillie moves closer to her, her nervous tics in full effect. The tucking her hair behind her ear, the shuffling of feet, and looking down at the floor before looking back up. Tillie was an open book. She was always so animated and fierce and had absolutely no problem putting people in their place. It’s what I liked most about her. She handled shit, no matter how wild it was in her hands—she still controlled it. I mean, Nate. Case in point. “Who knew this bastard was holding you hostage.” Tillie would attach herself to Saint, not only because they’re siblings, but because they are two halves that have always needed to be whole.
Saint moves her long snow-like hair over one stiff shoulder, and my fingers flex around the glass. She peers up at Tillie with her doe-like eyes. The whitest gray you could ever imagine, they almost look unreal.
The first thing I noticed about Saint was her eye color.
The second was how easily she took hold of the burning rage that simmered deep in my gut and stored it away to use as a weapon. I was her weapon; she just chose my targets. How, you ask? Well, for one, you could breathe in her vicinity, and if I think you’re just a little too close, it’ll be the last one you ever fucking took. Touch her? The last memory your family will ever have of you is your hands in a fucking box. She took hold of my rage and stamped her name across it in block letters.
“There’s a lot you don’t know.” I swirl the amber liquid in my tumbler, my eyes on Tillie.
She huffs, crossing her arms in front of her. It’d be cute, if I gave a fuck. “That, I don’t doubt.”
I slowly shake my head at her. Drop it.
“Fine,” she says, hooking her arm into Saint’s. “We’re going to be friends.” Tillie continues to walk Saint out of the room and into the kitchen area, leaving Nate, Bishop, Eli, and me. Don’t fucking know where Cash and Hunter left to. I missed everything while counting to one-fucking-hundred.
Eli kicks my leg as I drop down onto the sofa beside Bishop. “How the fuck have you managed to keep your hands off her?”
“Because I don’t think with my dick.” I turn my head until my focus is back on him.
Eli chuckles. “Fucking waste. What’s the point of having that ladder if you won’t let bitches climb it?”
I glare at Eli. Little fucker. Eli has always been the loudest in the group, and our group has Nate, so that’s saying something. “Because the bitches that do very rarely live to reach the top.”
Silence falls around me until my eyes squeeze closed and fatigue seeps into my muscles.
“Are you going to tell her that Tillie is her sister and that her mom wa
s a psychotic bitch that we had to kill? Or that Bishop is her half-brother and that her father is a for real fucking thug dressed up in Armani?” He’s right. She should know her history, but that would open up a whole new can of ‘WTF’ when she asks who the fuck we are and how she came to be living with Lucan and me.
“Yeah, I will. Not right now.”
“Are you worried as much as I am about the friendship that could form?” Nate mumbles, watching us all skeptically from the other side of the room.
I squeeze my hand into a fist, my nails cutting into my palm. “No.” I chuckle, shaking my head. “Tillie takes care of the people she loves. I trust her with Saint.”
“Trust her?” Bishop stares at me blankly. “That deep, huh?”
My jaw clenches. “You have no idea.”
Nate built The Den with this house, but then we changed the name to Buckingham. It drowns in black furnishings with deep mahogany redwood and modern glass. There’s a bar, a rectangular boardroom table with ten seats, black plush rugs, a poker table, a billiards table, and a safe that is integrated into the wall, filled with stacks of gold bullion and fake passports. It was all part of Bishop’s plan to make some changes within the Kings’ world when he took over. Our fathers ruled with force, as well as their fathers, but it was time to modernize The Elite Kings’ world. In order to stay one step ahead, we have to make sure we’re ten steps ahead.
Falling onto one of the leather sofas, I reach for the humidor, sliding out a clean Cuban cigar. I run the trunk beneath my nose, inhaling all of the exotic notes that are rolled up while watching Bishop. To say he has been strained since Madison took off is a complete understatement. Bishop has been angry. Now he’s just hurting.
His hands dive into his hair as Nate, Eli, Hunter, and Chase make their way into the lounge area and find somewhere to sit. Bishop clears his throat. “We need to talk about Saint.” I flick the cigar around my fingers, ignoring his request. The room is silent, and I know they’re all waiting for me to answer.
I fling the cigar across the table and reach forward, snatching the joint that’s tucked behind Nate’s ear, biting it into my mouth and popping open the Zippo lying on the table. I blaze up, sucking in a row of heavy tokes. I hold in the smoke and lean back in the chair before slowly releasing the cloud between my lips in a line of smoke rings. The tension in my muscles and my mind liberate instantly.
I roll the tip between my thumb and index finger. “What do you want to know?” I kept her a secret from them for as long as I could. Lucan didn’t spill shit about shit. Even when everything went down, he still didn’t spill any details about Saint. He could have. The truce between him and Hector had cracked open. He didn’t have to keep Saint a secret, but he did. Even during his final minutes on this earth. Never thought much about that until now. “How about we start with how you know and what you know?”
Bishop swaps glances with Nate. Bishop and I haven’t been seeing eye-to-eye much lately, but that doesn’t mean I wouldn’t take a bullet for the fool. He exhales and leans forward. “Dad told us. Said we had to keep her safe.”
My brows knit together as I take another hit of the ganja. “She is always fucking safe.”
“We know that now,” Nate murmurs, resting back in his chair. “We didn’t when we found out. So, tell us her story.”
Blood rushes to the surface. “I was seven, or six. Seven, I think, when she arrived. Barely old enough to hold a knife and fork, but fuck if you put a nine in my hand I would have shot any motherfucker that came near her.”
Bishop snickers. “So she’s your Madison?”
“Fuck no,” I dismiss him. “Never went near her with that intent. She just—I don’t know. I needed to protect her. Always felt this fucking need to protect her.”
The silence was almost loud enough to dance through the room with a pair of fucking pointe slippers on.
“All right, well, I won’t ask questions about whatever it is that’s going on between the two of you. It obviously has some history on it.”
I grit my teeth. You could fucking say that.
“There’s a problem with this…” Cash murmurs, his finger working his upper lip. He’s grown his hair out a lot, with it now needing to be tied into a pretty little bun.
“And what’s that?” I run my tongue over my teeth before baring them like a fucking wolf.
“Well, there’s a color that we have to call, you know, to let others know that she’s off-limits. So I’ll ask since no one else has the balls to do it. Are you gonna soak her in your blood so that the rest of the wolves know she’s claimed?” He even went as far as explaining why we call it “red.”
A menacing chuckle rocked through me while leaning back in my chair and keeping my eyes on his. Locked on his pretty blues, I don’t falter until the blacks of mine drown his. “I’m not calling red on her because it’s not like that.”
“Then she’s going to be fair game if she starts hanging around like I fear she may be. I mean, we all know what happened with—” Cash pauses when a loud click cracks through the air.
My eyes shoot straight to the head of the table where Bishop has his Desert Eagle pressed right against Cash’s temple.
Cash doesn’t unlock his eyes from mine, though his smirk is cocky enough for Bishop to see.
My lip curves up, because I already know why he’s landed himself in shit.
“—say her fucking name, motherfucker, and King or no King, your brains will be sprayed over the walls.” Bishop is bluffing, he wouldn’t actually kill a King. That’s never happened, with the exception of Lucan.
I can’t hold in my laughter, and my head hits the back of the chair as I flash a god-honest authentic smile right at Cash. “Ahhh, you were saying?”
Cash rolls his eyes. “You know what happened to she who shall not be named and Tillie. No one called it on them for a while. There were almost two ‘throuples’ that happened. It’s in our history books that this happens.”
There’s another long stretch of silence before I start flicking that same Zippo around between my fingers. “No one will touch Saint,” I say with calm assertion.
“You know this?” Cash fires back, and I have to stop myself from reaching over the table, latching on to his throat, and tearing it straight from his spine.
“Fact, I know it.”
“How so?”
My lip curls. “Because fucking with a girl who is owned by me is far scarier than fucking with someone who has been drowned in the blood of her lover.” I pause, tilting my head while keeping my eyes trained on his. “Care to test that theory?”
Cash blows out a loud inhale of breath, flopping backward onto his chair and shaking his head. “I swear to fuck, you’re all crazy.”
“And you’re not?” I quirk a brow.
Cash winks. “Not that crazy. I’m sure you’re right…” We all relax a little when Bishop tucks away his gat. Trigger-happy Bishop. He’s just like the old Bishop, only more wounded.
“That still leaves one thing,” Bishop says from the head of the table. “She needs to know about me and Tillie. About Hector, Brantley. It’s safer for her to know, and on top of that, we have outside threats that will most likely be after her if it has gotten out that after all this time, Hector had himself a little” —deep breath and then slowly through gritted teeth—“Swan.”
Brantley
Fourteen years old
Dea was what I called her when she walked into our house for the first time. She was a child. Toddler. But different. Her voice had a tone that I had never heard. I sometimes wondered if it was because of her first years being spent in some fucked orphanage.
“Brantley? Are you home?” There was a knock on my door, but my mouth slammed closed, my fingers flexing in my palm. I didn’t hate her, but I should.
Fuck, I should hate her. She’s a Swan.
The door opened, spilling the hallway light into my room.
I didn’t answer. I didn’t want to. My body was aching, bloo
d spilling from my nose, leaving the toxic taste of metal sticking to the back of my throat.
What the fuck did she want?
If I don’t answer, she’ll obviously go away.
But she didn’t. She took the few steps into my bedroom and kicked the door closed behind herself, cutting off what light was coming through.
I held my breath. Did she know I was in here? Probably not. What the fuck is she doing.
The mattress sank beside me. “Can I sleep in here?”
Okay, so I was wrong.
I didn’t answer. I couldn’t. Every time I moved my mouth, pain shot through my gums. Motherfucker almost knocked my fucking teeth out, now I’ll send his in a cute little package for his mother to wear around her neck. Here’s your pearl necklace, bitch. Signed, TEKC. Everything stung. Pain. And still, that was nothing compared to what I had lived through tonight, but the pain reminded me that I survived.
She obviously laid down beside me because I could feel her body weight sink into the mattress, her hair splaying out over my arm.
“Why does it smell in here?” she asked softly, and I held my breath again.
I wanted to say, why the fuck are you in my bed? No one comes in my room, let alone on my goddamn bed, but I didn’t. I remained silent because I was afraid if I said anything, she’d see straight through the words I used and snatch the ones I was trying to hide.
I flexed my fingers, but electricity shot up my arm, spreading out through my veins. It was worth it.
