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85
The House of Black
YVESWICH, STATE OF KER
Roman held Paxton’s hand as they walked together up the steps of the House of Black. Donovan took the lead, his Shadowmasters fencing Roman and Pax in on all sides. Near the perimeter of the enclosed yard, Don’s pet wolves observed from the shadows with gold eyes, a few pacing along the chainlink of their pens.
The pounding of Pax’s heart was audible, his breathing ragged. Roman gave his hand a gentle squeeze, willing himself to be strong for his brother.
No one would touch Pax—not if Roman could help it. And he always did, taking the brunt of anything Don threw their way. But it never made it easier on Pax—not by much. Emotional and mental scars sometimes ran deeper than physical ones.
One by one, they filed into the House of Black—the mouth of the beast. Roman kept Paxton close, but the moment they got down the hall, Larina shutting the front door, Don gave Simon and Trey a stiff nod.
Simon grabbed Paxton by the arm, pulling so hard he ripped the other out of Roman’s grasp.
“No!” Paxton shrieked.
Roman moved, stalking forward just like one of those wolves his dad chained in the yard. “Don’t fucking touch him!” he snarled, eyes going black.
His magic swept out, pinning multiple Shadowmasters to the walls.
But Don’s top cronies were stronger than Roman with their magic, and they blocked the storm of shadows with their own. Darkness exploded through the foyer—so thick, it was blinding.
Trey used the advantage of the darkness to land a fist in Roman’s gut. Another across his face, the impact splitting his brow open.
Paxton started screaming.
Sayagul tore out of Roman’s shadow with a screech. But the dragon was soon pinned to the wall by Blaine’s owl Familiar, talons skewering her wings.
A blow across the back sent Roman crashing to his knees. He stopped fighting, knowing it was no use. This night would end the same way as the others—with suffering, pain. His suffering, his pain.
“Romaaaan!” Paxton’s scream of anguish rattled the windows. “Leave him alone! Don’t touch him—” His pleas were silenced by a wicked twist of his arm, sick delight on Simon’s face.
The sight of Paxton in pain boiled Roman’s blood.
“Let,” Roman growled, the shadows in the room stirring anew, his eyes and hair solid black, “him go.”
Simon did not. Just one more little twist and Pax’s arm would snap like a tree branch.
So Roman reined his shadows in. Looked up at Donovan from where he knelt on the floor, his back throbbing where Trey had struck him. “It was me,” Roman declared. “My fault. My decision. I told Pax to keep his mouth shut about the house. Do whatever you want to me—just don’t touch him. Please.”
Donovan measured him with soulless eyes. Although the shadows of their magic had dissipated, it was still dark in the house—a shadowy den perfectly fitting for a shadowy creature. “You’re so pathetic, Roman.” Don’s cold words echoed. “Begging like a pussy.” But he said to Simon, “Let him go.”
The prick released Paxton immediately.
Simon and Trey moved toward Roman—
Roman stood before they could lay a hand on him. “I’ll walk.”
They merely smiled, Don included.
And so Roman walked to his fate.
They took their sweet time beating him, like usual. Roman was used to it—the pain, the humiliation, the torture. But worse than his suffering was the sound of Paxton screaming.
Not in pain—not that. And thank gods it wasn’t. Had they laid a hand on his little brother, Roman would’ve fought to the death, would’ve razed this house to the ground to get to him. Protect him.
Paxton’s screaming was for Roman’s benefit. He was on the main floor, yelling his lungs out at Don and the other Shadowmasters, begging them to let Roman out of this room—this damp cave deep below the earth. The kid was even offering himself in Roman’s place—taking after his big brother in all the ways Roman did not want him to.
