“Asshole,” I say under my breath, hurrying over to pull her out. “Are you okay?”
“Thank you,” she mumbles, trying to get her wet hair out of her face.
“That guy was such a creep,” I say angrily.
“Don’t- don’t let them hear you say things like that.” The server steps away from me like I have rabies. “Just don’t.” She speed-walks back into the house, her black shoes sloshing with every step.
Theresa pulls her sleeves down again. “I know they seem a little entitled-”
“A little?” I snort, looking around for the girls.
“Yes, but they’re legendary,” she says. “If you get in with their group, you’re set for life!”
“Set for what?”
“Everything. When you’re with the Lords of Chaos, you’re welcomed everywhere. No more standing in line, no more bastards giving you crap. It’s respect.” Her pale skin is flushed and she looks almost… rapturous?
There’s a lot to unpack here. First:Lords of Chaos?Oh, sweet baby Jesus, the bullshit grandiosity of these people.
“I see.” What am I going to say to this girl? She really believes these rich assholes are going to scoop her up and make all her problems disappear.
An enormous man, bare-chested and in jeans, bangs a baseball bat on one of the big metal planters around the pool; the booming sound it makes sends my ears clanging painfully like the bells of Notre Dame.
“Pay attention, fuckheads! The Dark Games are about to begin!”
Partygoers obediently walk toward him like lambs to the slaughter. The crowd parts a bit and I see the man is wearing a mask. An alarmingly life-like wolf mask, with a long muzzle and bristling, razor-sharp teeth. The torches lining the terrace flicker light over the mask, bringing it to life.
He turns his head and looks right at me.
Chapter Two
In which Kai has had enough of this shite.
Kai / “Wallace…”
“C’mon, Wallace. Let me make you feel better.”
The girl trying to crawl on my lap is pissing me off. She’s one of those extra-skinny types who refuses to eat more than an almond a day.
Mariah? Misty? M… somethin’ starting with an M.
“Not tonight.” I drink half my Glenfiddich. “Are you forgetting the Dark Games? I have shit to do, so get off my lap.”
She slowly stands up, pouting as hard as she can. “How about after?” Her voice is shrill with disappointment, and the pitch kicks off the buzz saw in my brain. Being on this fecking island is a headache. An ever-present throb of pain about who and what I have to be.
Brushing past her, I head for the study in the back where my fellow arseholes are ready for another game. The Dark Games, we call ‘em, but they’re more than dark; they’re the blackest of the black. The color matches my soul, though it’s hard to care.
I’ve been in this fecking life as a Lord of Chaos for six weeks, no closer to finding the site of the nerve gas lab, though I’ve picked up plenty of other bits of information to pass on to Uncle Cormac; new crime families distributing drugs - the hardcoreshite - a couple of ports they’ll likely use to ship the gas and modified rifles.
Just not the god-cursed lab.
Five of the other Lords are there, lounging in leather wingback chairs. The elegant room looks like it should be a private club, where old, wealthy businessmen plot the future of government and commerce. Technically, thatiswhat we’re doing, we’re just younger, stronger, and more vicious about getting what we want.
“About time, motherfucker,” Enzo says, finishing off his drink. “We were about to start the fun without you.” He’s wearing leather pants - the poser - and boots, his tattoos twisting all over his chest and arms in the firelight.
“Who’s on the menu tonight?” I ask, picking up my baseball bat and spinning it. It’s a solid piece of wood, polished to a sheen, but traces of blood are embedded in the grooves like veins running through it, a living thing meant for destruction.
Marcus clicks the remote, and the huge monitor lights up, showing our guests scattered through the mansion and scanning slowly over the women.
