Brax glares at them. He bites, "Seriously? You all need hobbies."
They ignore him and seize his wrists.
He tries to fight, but there are too many of them. They hold his arms straight out.
A judge bangs his gavel. "Silence!"
The room quiets.
He demands, "You will relax and allow the ritual to take place. If you fight, it means you are not choosing this. There will be no ritual."
He grunts, his defiance growing as his fists clench.
The judge commands, "Declare your acceptance of the ritual. Or this will end now!"
Brax says nothing.
"Say 'I choose this ritual!'" the judge orders.
Before he can answer, I urge, "Say it!"
He jerks his head toward me. Fire explodes in his expression.
"Say it," I repeat, trying to sound confident, but it comes out in a shaky beg.
He stares at me a moment, mutters, "Fucking hell, Valentina," then purses his lips, looks at the judge, and roars, "I choose this ritual!"
There's a gasp, then the crowd resumes chanting louder than before. The men secure the cuffs around Brax's wrists, and the slack gets eliminated. His muscles flex against the pull, broad shoulders stretching, chest rising.
The gong sounds again. The ropes lose their tension, and the women on the other pedestals lower their arms. Men unlock the cuffs from their wrists. They step off the pedestals and kneel around Brax, settling into their new positions. Their masks glitter from the torches, and they tilt their heads back.
Sweat beads at the base of my spine. My heartbeat thunders, and the woman with the scarlet V steps forward. She leads me several feet directly in front of Brax, demanding, "Strip!"
Brax's eyes turn to slits through his mask.
Every heartbeat is a punch to my ribs. I fight to keep my hands from shaking and remove all my clothing until I'm wearing nothing but my mask.
Brax's jaw clenches.
I keep my gaze locked on his, surprised he doesn't take his off mine.
The three empty pedestals vanish into the floor with a grinding rumble. Another mechanism groans overhead. A thick rope unspools, lowering a black leather swing directly in front of Brax.
The leather glistens under the flickering flames, its surface scarred with cracks and darkened red splotches that look uncomfortably like dried blood. The iron attachments creak as it descends, steady and ominous, stopping just a few feet from his chest.
Brax's gaze snaps to it, then to me. Agitation radiates off him in waves. His breath turns shallow. Every muscle in his restrained arms pulses with new force.
Everything between us is about to shift into a place neither of us will forget.
No one will forget.
I'll always be the one.
The woman with the scarlet V lifts it and presses the cold leather against the center of my chest.
A tremor races up my spine. My stomach rolls.
She drags her fingers over the gold chains and moves behind my back, fastening them with slow precision. When the clasp snaps shut, the room fills with whispers. Condemn her, brand her, execute her are just some of the phrases.
