I come to a halt, keeping my expression blank. “Mother.”

Her icy blue gaze probs mine before drifting away. I’d suspect it was guilt that keeps her from looking at me for very long if I thought she cared about me in any capacity. But I know better.

“How are you?” she asks, her voice carrying a practiced formality.

“I’m fine.”

I don’t bother to ask how she’s doing. Unlike her, I don’t waste my time with pleasantries that mean nothing. There was a time when I would’ve begged for a kind word from my mother, but her allegiance lies with my father. It always has, and it always will.

However, it’s a devotion born from fear and danger, not love and respect. Not the way Delilah is loyal to Benjamin. I’d do fucking anything to have her feel that way about me.

My mother delicately clears her throat. “Your father is expecting you.”

This statement defines our relationship. If you can even call it that. She maintains an air of detachment like a cloak, draping herself in it to remain emotionally hidden and unscathed.

From my father? Certainly.

From me? Possibly.

“I know,” I say.

“Very well.”

I give her a curt nod and start walking. No other words need to be said. The opportunity for real conversation died the day she abandoned me.

I reach the espresso-colored doors of my father’s study and stop. A quick knock grants me permission to enter, and I step into hell.

Also known as my father’s sanctum.

Closing the doors behind me, I fully enter the room. The grandeur of this place rivals a king’s court. The air is thick with aged leather, polished wood, and the faint scent of cigars. My father sits behind a massive oak desk, surrounded by shelves filled with books.

“Xavier.” He sets down the papers in his hands and flicks his gaze to me. “I trust that you have something to report about the McKenzie boy?”

Benjamin and I are both eighteen, but this is how my father views me—as a child to be controlled without rebellion.

“He left for South Harbor this morning and should be there by now.”

My father studies me for a moment, his gray eyes scrutinizing. We share the same eye color, but there’s also a coldness, a hardness in his that we both possess. “Getting McKenzie there is only half the battle,” he says. “Keeping him there is going to be more of a problem.”

I remain silent. Every sentence, every word is a strategic move in a game of chess I’ve been forced to play. One wrong choice leads to more than a lost pawn.

“Does he have anything we can use to persuade him to fall in line?” he asks.

Delilah.

Her face appears in my mind, her green eyes sparkling with emotion and her lips tilted in a smile. For an instant, I forget myself and my surroundings, and the threat directly in front of me.

The very thought of her ruins me.

My chest tightens, and I steel my facial expression, keeping it impassive. I force myself to erase all memory of Delilah in this moment with practiced mental discipline learned from years of self-preservation. Anything good in my life is considered a threat to my father. And he’ll eliminate it.

Or worse, force me to do so.

“Keeping him in line won’t be a problem,” I say, choosing my words with care. “He has nothing holding him back.”

“So, no girlfriend?”

I don’t know if they’re together, but it doesn’t matter. They won’t stay that way. I may not be able to kill Benjamin to keep him from Delilah. However, there are other ways to accomplish that.

As far as any other man… I have no restrictions.

When my father forced me to learn various forms of self-defense along with fighting techniques, I’m certain he didn’t think I’d use them for a girl. To be fair, neither did I. Delilah is the one thing in my life I didn’t see coming.

But I can’t unsee her.

And I don’t want to.

“After having watched him for several days, I didn’t see any evidence of a relationship,” I say.

“Hmm.” My father strokes his chin in thought. “It doesn’t matter. There are other ways to keep people in line. Stay close to him and figure out what his weaknesses are and how to exploit them. Obtaining leverage on the McKenzie heir is your sole purpose now.”

I nod. “I understand.”

“I hope so.”

“Anything else?” I ask, ignoring the insult. “I have to be on campus for the pledging ceremony.”

My father leans back in his chair. “That’s just for show. The real initiation will begin soon, recruit.”

I’m no longer talking to Edward Donovan. Before me sits one of the three council members of the Obsidian Order. A guild of assassins.

“The Order.”

“The Order,” he repeats with emphasis. “We’re sworn to secrecy, but I have prepared you for this moment your entire life.”

His words echo with a history of family traditions, a legacy built on manipulation, violence, and power. I stare at the man I closely resemble, unable to escape my destiny any more than I can change my DNA. My birth was for this very purpose: to serve a secret society that I know almost nothing about but must dedicate my life to.

Until death.

More binding than a marriage, and more demanding as well.

His gaze sharpens, the gray like honed steel. “Don’t embarrass me, son.”

I give him a curt nod. The gravity of an unknown situation, weighed down with expectations, wraps around my neck like a noose. The impending danger causes it to tighten, as does my father’s silent warning.

“You’re dismissed,” he says. “But I’ll be watching, Xavier. They all will.”

Ten founding families. Hundreds of years of history. Thousands of members that have gone before me.

And one girl who makes my life worth living.

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Chapter 5XAVIER

Freshman Year at South Harbor University

A few weeks later...

Mors solum initium.

Death is only the beginning.

The ancient words resonate in my mind, in both languages. They dig into my psyche like an ax to wood, slowly chipping away at my calm demeanor. I knew this day would come, but it won’t be my last on this earth.

It could be for a weaker man.

Someone rips off the hood covering my head, leaving me to blink away the darkness. My vision is slow to adjust, but my instincts are fired up, ready to push me into action. To kill.

I’d bet my inheritance that’s why the league of assassins brought me here.

I’m quick to scan my surroundings, taking note of the others. My competitors. The men who will either be my brothers-in-arms or the ones who will attack me.

The setting for our initiation is a castle dungeon, a structure that’s probably older than the Obsidian Order itself. The air is thick with the scents of dirt, stone, and fear. A flickering torch along the wall provides light for us to see, but the space is still dark enough to create an ominous atmosphere.

The cold, unforgiving floor underneath me slowly drains my body’s warmth, just as the chains around my wrists and ankles clinking together siphon my patience. The sensation of being bound, of being another’s prisoner has memories clawing my mind, drawing metaphorical blood.

I’m more than ready to draw actual blood, if only to repress the dark images trying to emerge.

I run my gaze over the twelve other men sharing my predicament. All of them are like me, sons from one of the ten founding families. All of us were born for this purpose.

Except one.

The newcomer’s brow is furrowed with the standard “what the fuck” expression. He doesn’t bother to hide his shock or his frustration at being shackled. But he should. Giving anyone insight into your thoughts puts you at a disadvantage.