Page 34 of Glutton for Punishment

Or, in this case, my father.

He strolls inside with the relaxed confidence of someone who knows the room already belongs to him. Marcus Blaise doesn’t look like the terrifying man people whisper about. Tonight he looks like the fun version of power—sleeves rolled up, hair ruffled, expensive jacket slung casually over one shoulder, smiling easily as someone presses a drink into his hand.

“My favorite degenerates,” he says with a laugh, clapping one of my friends on the back. “This explains why I found my liquor cabinet half empty.”

The room erupts in laughter.

As if any room in this building could be considered a cabinet. We have enough liquor on this floor alone to gift every family within ten miles a five-hundred-dollar bottle and still not notice the dent.

People love my father. To them he isn’t just the Councilor—he’s the man who throws the best parties and somehow remembers everyone’s name, the one who makes you feel important the second he shakes your hand.

He glides through the crowd with effortless ease. A wave of perfume and silk shifts toward him as the girls close in, their laughter pitched just a little higher. Across the room, men straighten ties and smooth hair, already rehearsing lines under their breath.

‘Lucky bastard,’ is what people always say about me. ‘Must be nice having a dad like that.’

Eventually he makes his way to the bar that I’m standing behind and throws an arm around my shoulders like we’re just two guys enjoying a night out.

“There’s my boy,” he announces to the room. A few celebratory whistles cut through the music.

Pretentious kiss ass bottom feeders.

“What, did my invite get lost? He asks me, smiling around his joke.

“As if the host would ever need an invitation,” I say, loud enough for the crowd to hear, leaning back against the counter with a practiced smirk.

A smile crosses his face. He loves the subtle reminder to everyone that he is responsible for their happiness. Their joy. It may have taken years… but I know what to say to this man to feed his ego.

A few people lift their drinks toward him in agreement.

He laughs, the sound deep, but the hand on my shoulder tightens just enough for me to know he didn’t come up here just to party.

“If only I could stay with you fine people longer,” he says to the crowd as a chorus of playful groans and mock disappointment rises around us.

“I know, I know,” he continues. “But a vigorous leader doesn’t get much time for fun.”

He gives my shoulder a squeeze. “I need to borrow Ryker for a moment. You all carry on.”

He leans closer, his voice dropping low enough that only I can hear it. “Walk with me.”

I push away from the bar and follow him without argument as he leads the way towards a locked door to our private elevator tucked behind the lounge area. The noise of the party fades the moment the doors slide shut, leaving us alone in the quiet hum of the elevator as it climbs.

For a moment he just studies me, which makes the hairs rise on the back of my neck. I look into his mossy green eyes that look so much like my own, trying to gauge his mood.

“You’re enjoying yourself tonight,” he says.

I shrug. “Just entertaining some top dogs while I’m home from the academy.”

He smiles at that, though there’s something sharper behind it now.

“Just remember something, son. Parties aren’t just fun and games.”

I already know what’s coming, so I lean back against the mirrored wall and cross my arms, waiting for the lecture.

“When you drink with people,” he continues, “you’re building loyalty through comradery. When you watch them snort your drugs, you’re building leverage. When people loosen up around you, they show you exactly who they are, and every mistake they make in your presence becomes something you can use later.”

The elevator lights tick upward between floors as he speaks.

“Indulgence is a useful tool,” he finishes. “Make sure you gain something from it.”