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They create the laws so that none can hinder them.
The Unsainted.
These are the uninitiated members of the Order of Saints. Generally, they are the younger siblings of the families, waiting for their turn once they are twenty-one. They have power through proximity but can’t rely on the Order of Saints’ full influence until they’ve gone through their ceremony and become Saints.
“Proceed,” I command, keeping my words clipped and to the point. As a Lord, I stand above and leave no room for argument.
The first two men approach us.
Even with the mask, the head of the Volkov family is easily recognizable. The Unsainted beside him is his eldest son.
The Saint, his face hidden behind a silver mask, grasps a sharp knife from the antique table placed at the front of the room. A dark and ancient scroll bearing hundreds of names written in blood sits alongside a quill and a glimmering silver bowl.
“With this knife, I pledge my unwavering responsibility to you,” the Saint utters in a low, menacing voice. “Your actions will determine my respect.” He reaches out and tightly clasps the hand of the trembling young Unsainted.
Only those escorted by their sponsor are allowed into the Vaults, but never for ceremonies like this.
With a quick jerk, the Saint pries open the Unsainted’s fist, drawing a sharp gasp as the tip of the knife makes an incision into his skin and a thin trail of blood drips into the bowl below. He then cuts his own hand and allows their blood to mix together in the vessel.
All is silent as the Saint dips the quill into their mingled blood and scrawls the name of the Unsainted onto the scroll.
I rise from my seat and approach the two men, holding out a silver fox mask between them. “Welcome to The Order of Saints,” I intone coldly. As I place the mask over the man’s head, he bows deeply in submission. I call out to everyone gathered in The Vaults. “May the power of Saints forever reign.”
The resounding reply echoes through the dark halls, sending shivers down my spine.
I return to my seat as the next two men approach and suppress a groan at the fact that we still have at least another two hours of this.
Chapter 13
Misty
The familiar buzz of the serger is the only thing that calms my nerves. My living room is a disaster of vibrant-colored fabrics, strewn across every surface. I’d woken up this morning with a wicked pounding in my head, like a tiny man moved in and was determined to tear down the walls with his tiny hammer.
I straighten from my hunched-over position and pull my hair off the back of my neck. It’s too short to pull up into a full ponytail, but I manage to peel the damp strands from my heated skin. My apartment is sweltering in the summer heat. It’s cute, and I’ve made it my own, but it’s lacking a lot of the luxury amenities, like air-conditioning.
I reposition myself with two hands on the deep mulberry-purple fabric of my new project and press down on the pedal. It’s going to be an A-line skirt that hits just above the knees. It’s the third piece I’ve attempted today, the last two left abandoned in a pile on the floor.
Anything to keep my mind off last night. A world-altering, mind-shattering mistake. Because there is no world that I, Misty Hart, fooled around with Damon Ares Everette the freaking Third. Even his name sets us worlds apart.
But somehow, in my oh-so-drunken state, my mind convinced me that he’d wanted me. No, needed me. And I needed him. That his touch had become essential to my very existence, and nothing could stop what was happening. Certainly not me.
Which in the light of day is epically stupid. I can’t even blame it on being drunk because the second that man lifted me over his shoulder, I was light-headed for a completely different reason.
Which is why, with one simple word, No, it was like he’d dumped an ice bath down my shirt, snapping me painfully back to reality. He’s fully capable of fixing my problem with my H-1B visa, and he said no.
The worst part is it hurt. It had no business hurting, but the way he’d dismissed what we’d just done…his touch, feel, taste had pushed me over the best orgasm of my life, and he treated it like it was nothing.
Like I was nothing. Because of course I am. I’m only as good as my happy exterior, and I’d asked for something more. Had the audacity to be vulnerable for a single second, only for the world to slam reality back into my face. I hadn’t been able to rebuild my cheerful exterior, that easygoing, likable facade. No, he’d stolen that from me in a few warm touches and a single denial.
Nothing explains why he showed up there and ripped me away from Carter like that. The way he’d hauled me over his shoulder, like he’d had some sort of claim on me. I knew better than to believe in things like that.
Hell, I have firsthand experience with what happens when a rich boy doesn’t get what he wants.
I curse when my hand jerks, wrecking my stitching, and I stop the machine, pulling the fabric out and grabbing my seam ripper.
That’s when I notice that my normally precisely crisp line, one I’d mastered in high school, now looks like the path of a guy that’s three sheets to the wind.
It’s all Damon’s fault. With his perfect eyes. Perfect hair. Perfect freaking voice.
