Page 7
My cock still aches at the memory, hearing it play over and over in the back of my mind, like a pretty little song.
The door to the front parlor closes behind me with a soft click. I move through the dim hallway while candlelight trembles along the walls, casting shadows that could very well be mistaken for spirits.
By the time I reach the sitting room where my initiate awaits, I find him near the fireplace, absently turning a small trinket between his fingers.
Within the Legion, initiates are assigned higher-ranking members to shadow, most often commanders, who determine whether they’re worthy to pass through.
Parker is mine.
And whether that’s fortunate or unfortunate for him remains to be seen. I haven’t decided what I’m going to do with him just yet.
My attention drifts to the stand near the window, where a familiar shape is picking her way delicately across the dark wood. Eight legs moving about.
“Onyx.” My voice softens. “There you are, girl.” I hold out my palm, and she sprints to the edge of the stand, climbing onto my hand and over my arm tattoos. “How did you get out of my room? You know I don’t like when you wander.”
Onyx is a Brazilian black tarantula my mother gave me for my fifteenth birthday, back when she realized I had… unconventional tastes.
“Is that a spider? And you’re just letting it crawl on you?” Parker’s shoulders roll in a shudder of disgust.
“She’s not an it. Watch how you talk about my fucking spider, I don’t play about her.”
He shuts right up, closing his mouth and blinking. “Sorry.”
“Number seven has arrived,” I tell him, placing Onyx back on the stand. Maybe it’ll be good for her to explore a little.
Parker huffs out a breath, dragging his palms down the front of his jeans, leaving dark crescents of sweat. As I watch the tremor in his hands, the corner of my mouth curls up.
“Nervous?” I ask, a chuckle rumbling in my throat.
He shoots me a glare. “How the fuck are you not with these things?”
I don’t answer aloud. That’s because nerves died in me years ago, buried under layers of expectation and violence that became a language I speak fluently.
But there is one thing I address. “Are you cussing at me, initiate? Glaring?” I narrow my eyes, tilting my head.
“Sorry, commander.” He sighs, body curling forward in his chair. “My dad is forcing me to do this, to be here, and I just—”
“Straighten your fucking posture.” I cut him off. Poor posture has been the bane of my existence since childhood, and I’m sure it has nothing to do with the beatings I endured for my own.
Like a dog in a training camp, he snaps upright, his back taut against the chair.
“Good boy,” I quip. “If you want to make it here, you keep doing what you’re told. Just like that.”
“Y-yes, commander.” A deep cherry flush spreads across his face, staining his cheeks so suddenly that I can’t help but laugh.
“Now, tell me about the contestant you invited for us.” For me. “Number seven.”
“Well, she’s—”
The door swings open, and Nico saunters in, his white porcelain mask pushed up just enough to reveal his mischievous grin. “That number seven bitch was fucking hot. I should’ve cut off her leg for kicking me, though.”
Parker’s head snaps up, eyebrows scrunching together. “That’s my girlfriend you’re talking about.”
Nico’s smirk widens behind the mask. “Not after tonight, buddy boy. I want her. Bad.” He makes a gesture of adjusting his dick.
The words ignite something savage in my blood. Images of him fucking her, claiming her, tasting her blood.
Fuck that.
