Maybe this is how my parents felt when the flames engulfed them, the licking blaze taunting them as they grappled with the inevitable. Clawing for a pardoning that would never arrive.
Time is ticking. Tick. Tick. Tick.
The drippings of my torment—of this utter mindfuck—splash to those weathered floorboards, puddling into the long scratches and dents in the wood so that instantly, the tattered past glimmers due to present anguish. Beauty preserved in the imperfections. In affliction.
Perhaps it’s my mind’s old habit of ignoring pain, but I am wholly enamored by that characteristic. This is a house dedicated to the surreptitious endeavors of multiple billionaires—an organization that rules all, that dictates who lives and dies—and yet nothing has been restored. Why?
Reverence.
Scars build character, flaunt perseverance, sing of life and history. The marking of mettle and gallantry. A treasure.
For KORT, that’s their meeting ground.
For me, the men in the pews.
There’s a way out. I just have to fucking think through it. People who honor ancestry and all its stains wouldn’t confine me in this room, write me into their chronicles, and order me to kill my husband. What sense would that make? He’s the reason I’m being tried. It would be blasphemy—an unnecessary blemish, not a valued one.
So, Ty is out.
My gaze flashes back to the table—to the thinning black sand.
Time is ticking. Tick. Tick.
Going after the Noires makes sense, but why bring Jax and Axel here with the intent of only killing one? Maybe it’s another head game for Axel. Like when he unknowingly killed my mother while taking out my father. That would make Jax the target, but that doesn’t quite align either.
A traitor.
I pop up and stride into the center of the cathedral with resolute determination. The vaulted ceilings and amber lighting cast a sinister shadow on the three of them.
We all sense the cage, but as my eyes lock on to each of them, it’sevident that no one has gathered the key. And, obviously, none of us are permitted to speak. But what isn’t clear is what they’ve been told.
All the color is drained from Axel’s face. He must believe I’m in danger. Or that Jax is. And Jax is sweating. Strands of his blue hair are wet and stuck to his forehead. Maybe they’ve been issued a similar directive—to shoot the traitor. Like aHunger Gameschallenge where we eventually just take each other out? No. That can’t be right.
Because Ty is surveying me, like he’s waiting on bated breath for my next move.My one sentence?
We latch on to one another. Wordless pleas and comfort, screams and hugs, all exchanged through a simple glance.
True north. One direction. If that’s to the depths of Hell because, today, we’ll leave this world together, so be it. He promised to love me in the next life, so …
Although I was really freaking excited about this one.
My lip quivers, but a jarring creak splits our moment. I turn toward the double doors opposite from where I entered to find an older gentleman with salt-and-pepper hair ushering some others into the sanctuary—Wells and Ivy among them. Neither of them spares me a glance though. They immediately flip two chairs from the half-moon configuration to face the back wall and sit.
“Good evening,” the salt-and-pepper-haired gentleman greets, standing behind the center seat and flipping the hourglass on its side—a pause in time. “I realize you can’t respond. I’m Jared Austen, leader of The Order and one of the five KORT chairs. We aren’t here to interfere. You may proceed with your task, but we felt it would be better to have a front-row seat rather than watch on screens. Ivanna and Wells have been instructed to face away so as not to impact your verdict. They’ll be viewing on their phones, but due to our bylaws, all knights must be present in order to convene at The Table.”
So much weirdness in one simple statement. And he appears to be normal. Kind eyes, gray suit, clean-cut. But,hey,we wanted the good seats for the execution.
And he flips the hourglass back up.
Time is ticking once again. Tick. Tick.
Should I use my one sentence to ask a question? What would that even be?
While I can’t claim to have ever been a loyal resident in the moral-high-ground neighborhood and I’ve seen enough movies and slice-of-life sitcoms to realize that I don’t have a firm grasp on what most people’s reality is, I’m confident this bunch is loony tunes.
Panic bubbles up at the base of my sternum, an itch to bolt flaring in my veins. They’ve trapped me, for sure. Trapped all of us. Even Ivy and Wells seem helpless, facing the wall while the other three have a view of the entire scene, guns out, eyes peeled.
The other three. The one who now consumes the center seat is Jared Austen, and the one on the far right is too young to be my father. So, my sperm donor, Johnny Balzano, occupies the far-left side of the table. Beer belly. Dark eyes. And a leer that has my teeth grinding. The bastard killed my mother—robbed the world of music and laughter and childlike dreams.
