Adrian didn’t think it was as amusing as I did, though Loni—who was sitting with us in the office when we were having that discussion—laughed so, yeah, I consider that a win.
I don’t think any of the men waiting on tenterhooks right now know how to laugh, either, especially not the older members of the old guard. Looking at them, I see men who spent decades bending the knee to Jack Collins, and I know that they expected more of the same from his son.
But that’s the thing. None of them understood that I was never built to be him. Mainly because he did everything he could to break me, and while I finally confessed to Lucy that Iwasbroken, I refused to be anything like the monster that created me.
And, as my last ‘fuck you’ to that bastard, I look at each and every one of the men who worshipped him and, as my last act as King, I tell them: “By my blood, I Claim Lucy Wright.”
The words ripple through the room like a shockwave.
A few men laugh. One mutters something under his breath that I can’t make out, but most of them just stare at me.
And then Stephen, Adrian’s former ‘mentor’ and one of Jack’s closest allies when he was sober enough to remember that being an Owed was more than going to the King’s Court to stick his dick in one of the Used, shakes his head. “I know the Wright girl. She was married off to Fairchild. How can you Claim an Offering who’s already been given to another Owed?”
See, Stephen? That’s why you don’t get drunk before you come to a meet? Like, really? Did you have to remind me?
My fingers twitch to lift the Ruger, to aim it at the man who used to be Jack’s second. No, Dal. Despite him opening his mouth and putting his foot into it just now, Stephen, at least, has always been loyal to my family. Dad, me… he’ll be an asset to Adrian, especially since he learned how to manipulate the supposed head of Adrian’s department back when he was, like, fifteen.
“You misunderstand,” I say, a light edge to my voice that is a warning to all gathered. “I’m not asking for fucking permission, got it? I’m letting you know how it is. She’smywife. No one else’s. And I’m not Claiming her because she’s some virginal Offering or because you think you have another power over me that I have to do what you said. When I agreed to that… I wasfucking out of my head. Not anymore. I want Lucy. I love Lucy. And I Claim Lucy.”
And, in case they haven’t gotten the message, I pull open the drawer and yank out the piece of cardstock I had Adrian sign.
In the middle of the paper, there’s a rusty brown handprint made of my spilt blood. In the middle of my Order brand, there’s a fresh pink scar because, shit, it just seemed poetic to cut that palm before I made my blood oath.
Over the handprint, I scrawled my promise:by my blood, I Claim Lucy Wright, with my signature right beneath it.
I show it off. “See this? I trust you fellas know what this means, yeah? This is my golden ticket right here. Anyone who threatens my Lucy? You’re dead. If you try to come between us? I consider that a threat so guess what? You’re dead. You even think of hurting her? Boom.Dead. Understand?
“My father made me a killer,” I go on when not a single one of the men says a damn word in response tomyblatant threat. It goes even more quiet as the truth lands hard in the room.
No one argues with me. How can they? They’ve all seen it. Heard about it… all the things I’ve done for the Order over the years. All of the bodies I buried because Jack told me I had to.
“I’m a killer,” I repeat simply, “but Lucy made me something else. She made me a protector. And you don’t want to know how far I’ll go to keep that woman safe. And this,” I say, showing off the blood oath again, “says that, in the eyes of the Order, I have every right to do so.”
Oliver steps closer, peering at the piece of paper. “It’s not valid. I can’t be. You’re the King. You can’t notarize your own oath. It doesn’t work like that.”
“Hey, Oliver? You know what the best thing about being beaten as a kid every time you got some fucking stupid little thing about the Order’s charter wrong?” I ask conversationally. Like Stephen, he was rubbing elbows with Jack until the dayAdrian killed him. Unlike Stephen, though, he suspects that that’s what happened and, since then, he’d been careful to err on the side of caution and stay on our good side.
That can very easily change, though.
I wait for him to answer. When he gapes at me like a fish, I smile.
“I’ll tell you. See, my old man said he was just making sure I’d be ready to be King. That was his excuse. I get a fact wrong, it don’t matter that I’m six and the charter was written by old guys who died more than a century ago. I was gonna be King. He’d beat the answers into me if that’s what it took. Well, guess what? Some of it stuck because I can tell you you’re abso-fucking-lutely right. I can’t notarize a blood oath. You know what I can notarize?This.”
I reach into the desk drawer again, reaching for the second piece of cardstock that I had placed right under the first one.
Holding it up, I ask, “Know what this is? Here. I’ll read it. ‘I, Dallas Collins, have abdicated my position as King of the Order of the Owed. In accordance to the Order’s charter, I am bequeathing my position to my next of kin, Adrian Heller.’ And, look, there’s my signature. See it? And you see what’s under that? Adrian’s.”
I swap the second piece of cardstock for the blood oath. “Now look at this. Oliver. Everyone… see that signature right here? That’s Adrian’s, too. As his first official act as King, he notarized my blood oath. So, yeah. It’s valid, fuckers. Remember that.”
Okay. Maybe I do have a bit of a dramatic streak like my cousin’s accused me of. Because hell if I don’t enjoy the looks on their faces as they realize the real reason that we’ve called this meet.
Surprise, assholes! This isn’t just about the blood oath, though that part was important to me. Oh, no. We’re here tomake sure that they understand Adrian is now the King of the Order, and there isn’t anything they can do about it.
One tries. Emerson McGill. A mid-level Owed who works as a banker downtown. He earned his position in the old guard because, in his late fifties, he’s been a solid member for a long time.
Hearing the news, he looks down his long nose and scoffs. “The Heller boy?” Boy, when Adrian is thirty years old and has been running the Order’s finances since hewasa boy. “You think we’ll lethimlead us?”
I glance to my left, peering up where Adrian is standing. His expression never changes, but it doesn’t need to. He doesn’t have to say a word, either. I know exactly what order he would give if had to vocalize it.
