I padded through the hallway of our mansion, passing the perfectly painted family portraits of us. They always said that one kid was enough for them and that they never needed three... Whatever the fuck that meant. My hand came to the golden handle of his office, and I pressed it down, shoving the door open. It was dark, as dark as his mahogany office desk that sat perfectly in the middle. Bookcases filled the walls, from the floor to the ceiling, and the only form of light that was pouring in came from the full moon, beaconing through the floor-to-ceiling window that overlooked the front of our plantation-style home.
“Dad…”
“Sit.” His voice was low, sounding as though he had swallowed a handful of gravel before saying it. Unlike me, Father was good with his words. He had to be.
I took a few more steps in until I was dropping down onto the chair that was tucked underneath his desk.
“Este timpul, son.” It’s time, son.
I shook my head. “I’m not ready.”
His head, that was bowed between his shoulder blades, raised, his eyes connecting with mine. “You’re ready, son. The only reason why you think you’re not is because I’m here.”
I scratched over my heart, where my Sons of Kiznitch tattoo was stamped. His eyes followed the movement, a smirk touching the corners of his mouth. My father spoke fluent English, but Romanian was his first language, because it’s the land of our family. We moved between Greek and Latin, but Latin was the language we mostly used, with it being the original language of our country. Of us. “You need to rise. You need to gather your brothers and begin your journey.”
“I’m sixteen,” I blurted out through my amateur mouth. Of all the things I could’ve thought of, ‘I’m sixteen’ was the first thing that came spewing out. Like it mattered. Like the fact I was sixteen had stopped me from committing the most heinous crimes. Like the fact just a few months ago, I killed for the first time. Or the fact when I was but a child, I became so obsessed with someone who would later become a pawn on my chessboard. That I would eventually do anything to be near her—even if that meant breaking her in the process, because breaking her only meant that I was close enough to her to do it.
Dad sank back in his chair, opening a drawer and slapping down a manila folder. “Delila needs you. All of you. Whether you think you’re ready or not, King, it’s time for you to do what you’ve been training your whole life to do. We’ve done our rounds. It’s time for you to start yours.”
“But you, Uncle Kratos, and—”
“They all agree.” He brought his eyes to mine, pinning me with his stare. “It is time, Kingston. You need to reign. You need to fulfill all that I have left for you to do.”
I paused, thinking over his words. I knew who he was talking about before he even had to say her name. Her. The girl who had a broken smile and bright eyes. The one I hadn’t spoken to, but I knew exactly the way her tongue would move around each alphabetical syllable. I’d never touched her teenage skin, but I knew how she would feel beneath the palm of my hand. I was engineered to hate her, but my humanity wanted her. I couldn’t fucking want her. My cock swelled in my pants, and I coughed, shuffling in my seat.
A moment passed between us before I opened my mouth. “Are you sure you can trust me with that?” My father, Kauis, the great terror of them all, stared me right in the eye. A man who was intimidating to most but had been nothing but a comfort to me. The edges of his eyes crinkled as he smiled. “Yes, son. I trust that you are well-equipped with enough power and sense to take it now.”
I slouched in my seat, bringing my hands to my mouth. “She reminds me of her.”
Dad chuckled. It’s the type of chuckle that put the fear of God into every single person who had met the receiving end of his blade. “A bit weak, don’t you think?” His eyes darkened. “Push her harder.”
I learned that between Midnights scenes, there are also others who have small acts. I don’t learn too much about theirs, mainly because it goes for so long. Every show is for three hours, with a forty-minute intermission for people to go to the bar, grab a snack, and get entertained by everyone walking around. I caught Killian chatting to the same three dudes as before, only they had a girl with pink hair with them now. I dashed away from them all before they saw me, afraid that King would think I was stalking his friends now. After watching some of the show from backstage, I dip back into the cubicle. The next scene is Killian’s before the final, and I’d be lying if I said I wasn’t worried. I am. Very. I know what Killian is capable of and I know I can’t trust them.
I swipe my sweaty palms down the side of my thighs when Delila interrupts me, swiping the curtain to the side. “Killian is going to introduce what will be your act. We’ve had a change. Though he can persuade you to do whatever he wants, they all can, what he wants is going to be your act.”
“Wait!” I whisper-yell. “What do you mean?” I’m confused. Yet again. I have to wonder whether they do this with all of their new acts, though I’m pretty sure Rose knew at least a little bit of what was going on during hers, since she had to actually perform.
Delila exhales, massaging her temples. “Pay attention, Little Bird. You need your own act, but Killian is going to introduce you. That’s all you need to know.”
If that was all I needed to know, then why am I asking more questions?
The curtain spreads open, and Delila is suddenly on the other side of the tent, walking down the stairs with the mic in her hand. “Our next act is by one of our very favorite Brothers.”
She lands on the bottom step and makes her way toward us. By this point, the crowd is so drunk that everyone is losing their shit by the sound of it. Thanks to the open bar they provide each person. “Sic ’em, boy.”
Killian smirks, his clown grin teasing me. He brings his mic up to his lips. “Come here.”
Again, my legs move without me entrusting them to do so. I don’t know what it is that Killian does, and I’m not sure I really want to know, but I’m intrigued. Intrigued because I’ve never felt so completely out of control before.
I’m face-to-face with him, the audience quiet while the spotlight beams on both of us. He licks his soft lips before I feel his arm wrap around my back, pulling me into his body.
He moves the mic away from his mouth and whispers into my ear, “Do you trust me?”
“No,” I answer instantly.
He comes back to standing, his grin deepening. “Good. You shouldn’t.” The mic is back at his mouth. “Play ‘Two Weeks’ by FKA Twigs.” I want to break eye contact to find the sound booth that I know he’s talking with on top of the audience. But he grins at me, yanking me back into his body. “Dance.” He releases me, pushing me onto the center stage. I curve my body around the sounds that are coming out, losing myself in the movements. My mouth curls around the lyrics, my arms flying up to entice the audience. The song ends, and when I turn around, Killian is perched on a chair, smirking. Beside him are Kingston and Kyrin. They’re all wearing no shirts and a skull bandana tied around their neck. That mixed with the sick clown makeup is too much.
The crowd laughs as Killian stands from his chair and circles me like a shark. I suddenly feel exposed, raw, here for everyone’s entertainment. Is Killian the equivalent to a crazy clown? If the clown was ridiculously hot, of course. He would fit the suit, though. The jokester, the funny one.