I soon learn that Wynter’s behind me because, tuning into the rest of the initiation, I realize we’re the only ones asked to do that.
A sexism thing or… I have no freakin’ idea.
Lights flare on once the rite is complete, revealing a larger-than-anticipated audience—over a hundred hooded men are seated in what I realize is an amphitheater.
“Stand and etch their number onto the cheek of your vouched.”
Maxim flows to his feet with an ease that’s pure poetry and dips his finger in his blood. I turn my head to the side and he writes, “IV.”
More brothers flood the room, items of clothing in their hands. One stands beside us, acting as a valet while Maxim dresses.
I wince at the immediate diffusion of blood through the white silk of his shirt but focus straight ahead as he fastens the buttons.
“You will be known by your house and your number until such a time as you are baptized into the brotherhood. Step over to the member of the house opposite you, one who shares your number, and take the dagger with you.”
“Kill.”
It’s a single word. So quiet he barely breathed it. But I hear the command and am reassured by Maxim’s guidance.
There’s a surety in that one word. A belief that I can do it.
It’s not like he’s asking me to take a walk in the park…
I have to assume he knows every secret in my arsenal, but I haven’t killed a man. So why the confidence?
Does he know I’ve been training with my brother-in-law in self-defense since I moved in with my sister?
Who am I kidding? Of course he knows.
But beating some punk’s ass and murder are two entirely different things. No?
Once I drift over to the other side and gather that I’m stuck with the great-great-great grandson of the oil baron, I accept that it might be easier to kill the fucker than I initially anticipated. He looks me over, the sneer faint, but I see it anyway. Like I’m a hooker for hire.
The urge to take him down a peg or two has me tightening my hands into fists as he spurns me. All while leering at my tits.
God, I hate men sometimes.
“We shall start at the beginning. Gaul I and Hispania I, assume your positions.”
Veronians shuffle us to the side, leaving Maxim on the opposite half of the amphitheater to me.
“You have three chances to impress us. This is the first. Do as you will within the bounds of what you find appropriate. First blood is all that we require.”
My brow furrows at Alaric’s instructions, even as I glance at Maxim.
For a man like him, used to the harsh realities of life on the streets, this pomp and ceremony must seem ridiculous. But he doesn’t appear indifferent. If anything, he’s staring straight at me.
To stop me from freaking out? To motivate me?
I need no such support.
He doesn’t know who he’s dealing with yet…
The last thing I’m feeling is scared or overwhelmed.
I’m stronger than I look.
The three fights don’t last long. At least, I don’t think they do. Time is nonexistent as Maxim holds my gaze. The Gaul beside me drawls something which has theVnext to Wynter snickering, but I ignore them as we’re called forth.
