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The Son holding Dean undoes the ropes holding his wrists behind his back, and Dean jerks his hands free, rubbing his wrists as the circulation starts to return. The one holding me, on the other hand, just grips me tighter, twisting the bonds holding my hands behind my back so that they grate painfully against my skin.
“Fuck you,” I hiss through my teeth, and the man behind me just chuckles.
“Who knows,” he whispers in a lascivious tone. “If you’ve pissed off the bosses enough, maybe they’ll let us enjoy you when you’ve served your purpose.” His fingers climb up my wrists, rubbing against my skin. “I’d enjoy that. Your traitor father almost got my ass thrown in prison.”
I open my mouth to retort, but Dean is already stepping forward, his gaze fixed squarely on his father. “Let them go,” he snaps, his hands fisting at his sides. “I’ve had enough of this, father. I told you—”
“The ritual is beginning,” Philip St. Vincent intones, stepping forward and placing his palms on the altar as he interrupts Dean. “Dean Blackmoor, you and the sacrifice that you’ve claimed have been brought here, on the holy day of Samhain, to confirm the blood that you have spilled and the place in this town’s legacy that you have claimed.”
Dean’s father smiles broadly, pride etched on every line of his face, as if he truly believes that Dean will give in now. That he’ll change his mind.
“Dean Blackmoor, repeat after me—”
“No.” Dean’s voice cuts through whatever Philip was about to say, and I can hear his father in him in that moment, his tone as clear and cold as anything I’ve ever heard, the finality in it coming down like a hammer on stone. “I deny my place as heir. I deny the ritual. I deny—”
“Silence!” The word is vicious, ringing in the air, and his father’s face twists, his hands clenching the side of the altar. “I knew you were rebellious, but I’d hoped that you might change your mind, when you saw how fruitless it was to fight. But now—”
“We brought this on ourselves,” Philip St. Vincent says calmly, turning to look at each of the men on either side of him, “when we strayed from the old ways. Tonight, as we discussed, it is time to go back.”
Mark Blackmoor nods. “The old ways are the ways that made this town what it is today. Dean Blackmoor, you are the heir. The virgin blood that you claimed seals you as the Blackmoor heir, and the future ruler of this town. And tonight, to reconsecrate this town as we once did, the ritual will be different. It will be as it used to be, and more. Because of your rebellion, a greater sacrifice is needed.”
What the fuck?My heart skips a beat, my pulse lodging in my throat and making it feel hard to breathe. Beside me, I can feel the tremor running through Dean, but he holds himself upright, facing his father fearlessly.
“I said, I deny--”
“Tonight,” his father continues, as if Dean hadn’t spoken, “tonight you will claim Winter as your bride, on this sacrificial altar, instead of ritually claiming your sacrifice as previous generations have. And when you are finished, together you will sacrifice the failed heirs, as the sacrifice watches, and remembers her place.” Mark Blackmoor turns towards me, his expression twisted and triumphant. “On her knees.”
Hands pull me towards the altar facing it, shove me down, my knees slamming painfully into the stone as I fall. Mia is slumped forward, still crying, and she looks up at me then, her eyes bloodshot and hopeless.
“What about Mia?” I speak before I can think better of it, looking up at the three implacable men behind the altar. “She doesn’t have anything to do with this, she—”
“She helped you plot against us.” Jaxon’s father speaks then, and I look at him, startled. I’ve never even seen him before, let alone heard his voice. Considering how the other two families treat the Kings, I’m surprised they’re allowing him to speak. “Don’t think we don’t know about your littleresearchsessions. This girl was defiled by your rebellion, just as our sons were. But tonight, we will purify you all with blood.”
Dean’s father smiles cruelly. “We will take it upon ourselves to purify this girl, when the ritual is almost complete. A second virgin sacrifice should be enough to rectify the wrongs you have brought upon this town.”
Mia lets out a small, hopeless cry, twisting against the ropes holding her to the altar, but it’s useless. I can’t even bring myself to meet her eyes, or Cayde’s, or Jaxon’s—or any of them.
It’s my fault. My fault. My fault.
The words circle in my head, cutting at me, tearing me open from the inside out. If I’d just given in, accepted my fate. If I’d let Dean win. If I’d never incited the boys to think differently about their place in the world, if I hadn’t dug into the history of Blackmoor, if I’d just been able to give in, to submit to the will of those that had decided for me, we wouldn’t be here right now.
My fault. My fault.
“Athena!” Jaxon calls out my name, his voice thick, as if he can see my thoughts on my face. “Don’t give in. Don’t—”
He cries out as one of the Sons lurches forward on either side of him, delivering blows to his stomach and face, making him cough and gag.
“Silence!” Philip St. Vincent’s voice rings out. “The ritual has begun. You will not speak.” He nods to the two Sons flanking the entrance, his face cold and stern. “Bring in Dean’s bride.”
A groan spills from Dean’s lips as a shadow creeps down the walls, the shape of a woman preceding the one walking into the room, and a moment later we see Winter, her smile beatific as she enters. She’s wearing a white robe, tied at the waist, her red hair spilling like blood over it, her hands clasped innocently in front of her. There’s no veil over her face, and her blue eyes meet Dean’s, shining with triumph. She doesn’t even bother looking at me, as if I don’t matter anymore. And I suppose I don’t.
She’s won. All this time I treated her like a nuisance, a spoiled brat who wouldn’t go away, wouldn’t accept that she’d lost the man she wanted. I’d been arrogant, certain of the boys’ love of me, certain that they wanted me above anything else.
I’m still certain of that. But it isn’t going to save us.
I feel as if I can’t breathe, and Dean looks as if he wants to commit murder, his expression furious. His hands are clenched at his sides, his chest heaving, and I hear Cayde curse aloud from the other side of the room.
“You’ve got to be kidding me!” he yells. “Not this fucking bitch again—shit—” He cries out as one of the Sons kicks him hard in his injured knee, an almost animal sound of pain spilling from his lips.
