“Now, apologize for wasting my time,” I demand. She whimpers a whispered “I’m sorry” and I release her. Tripping backward in her haste to escape any further consequences, she scrambles to right herself when I slam the door in her face.
I close my eyes and inhale deeply, struggling to contain the flood of adrenaline sparking the flames lying dormant beneath my skin. No one aside from my chosen brothers, the only ones who understand what it means to be Heir, will ever know how close they come to annihilation, held at bay only by my iron will. Not even my mother and father know that Hellfire burns its way through my veins like a poison. If they ever found out I held more power than any other Ignis Heir in recent memory, I’d never be free, though it’s not like I can escape their clutches as it is. None of us can.
We were never meant to be the cherished children of doting parents, merely results of breeding pedigreed bloodlines attempting to produce more powerful offspring with each new generation. Little more than tools to be wielded by our makers, until the day comes when the tools no longer fit the hands that have brought them to heel.
The sting of scalding water on my skin washes away the memory of the unknown girl's touch and the intrusive thoughts of my parents, of the threats and machinations lying in wait forus the moment we step out that door. Here in our sanctuary, it doesn’t feel like my chest is being crushed with every breath. I can close my eyes without fearing the knives in the shadows, lurking behind polite smiles, and begin the meticulous routing of cleaning my heavily tattooed skin, as I do every morning, followed by the exacting order of operations that ends with my trademark black on black suit, combat boots, and silver accents to provide contrast. Monogrammed cufflinks, the silver Hellhound lapel pins of House Kovacs with the accompanying chain, and an intricate Eldredge knot of black silk finish the look.
With each step, each layer of clothing, the unyielding control I wield settles into place, until the searing fury of my power hardens into glacial stillness, belying the danger beneath. The man in the mirror looks hard, immutable. He looks too much like my father, the resemblance marred only by my mother’s eyes. This is the Heir of House Ignis, Legacy of Wrath. Roth Kovacs is nowhere to be found, and not for the first time I wonder when the day will come that he disappears completely.
“Hey man, you done yet?” Luther's deep voice asks from behind the door. Despite Killian’s attempts to persuade him otherwise, Luther has never been a morning person. I unlock the door and step aside for him to enter.
“Who was that?”
“No idea.”
“Is she coming back?” he asks.
“Not if she knows what’s good for her,” I murmur. He grunts as he finishes pissing and washes his hands, brushing past me to walk back to his room.
“Save me some?” he asks before disappearing into his bedroom. Next door to him, I glimpse Thane’s foot hanging off his bed.
With one final adjustment to my tie, I leave our apartment. My retreating footsteps and the slam of the heavy door are the only things that dare break the silence of our private hallway. It might as well be the final turn of the vault that locks Roth Kovacs away. My shoulders tense, my gait becomes slow and deliberate. My jaw clenches as the all-too-familiar persona envelops me like a shroud. By the time I’ve reached the mirrored doors of our private elevator, the Heir of House Ignis, Legacy of Wrath, has taken over.
He is a cruel, exacting man. The prodigal son of even crueler parents. Anything less than perfect obedience risks drawing the ruthless ire of both illustrious dynasties. Most choose to bow rather than be forced to break, which is why the sea of students and faculty parts as I stride towards the Great Hall. The waitstaff deliver my breakfast within moments of my arrival—buttered whole grain toast layered with avocado slices and seasoned friend egg, with a side of freshly cut fruit.
I hone my senses as I eat, sifting through the hum of conversation and the clatter of silverware, cataloging everything I overhear. While Luther wields his overwhelming strength, Killian his wild savagery, and Thane his limitless destruction, I wield knowledge sharper than any blade, trading dark secrets in the shadows of truth, scheming and manipulating until something twists and breaks. And when required, Iburn.
Most don’t dare meet my gaze—sheep praying the wolf spares them for one more day. Only one scarred, milky eye dares to meet mine in silent challenge. He might be the only one alive who could pose any direct threat to my seat at the top of the hierarchy, but the dragon prince forfeited his birthright long ago. When he drops his head, my demon revels in his reluctant submission.
Luther and Thane are followed by greedy, hungry eyes as they enter the Great Hall. Women adjust their blouses and hikeup their tailored skirts. Men straighten their shoulders and call out greetings. All in vain attempts to get closer to us and our legacy.
Our power.
No words need to be said as they sit down. I already know that Luther is bracing himself for verbal abuse and emotional manipulation during his next visit home. Thane is lost in his hangover as his first blunt of the morning smothers the ghosts of his nightmares. All that’s missing is Killian, who will finish his morning run in approximately seven minutes and breeze through like a hurricane, devouring whatever remains on our plates in addition to his own.
I pass Luther the side dish of cantaloupe as usual and he devours the rest in two bites, returning his focus to the enormous plate of food the waitstaff delivered when they sat down. Thane barely glances at his own before leaning his head back and closing his eyes, head surrounded by a halo of enchanted smoke. Right on time, Hurricane Killian finally makes landfall, nearly tipping over my coffee in the process when he crashes into the table. He merely grins and shrugs when I glare at him, scooting his chair closer to the table.
“Chill, man. Nothing spilled—don’t get your dick in a twist.” Luther’s lip twitches and Thane scoffs. I flick my eyes to them before watching Killian with disdain as he shovels food into his mouth so quickly I question whether he even tastes it.
“You guys see the new girl yet?” he asks, and I struggle to comprehend how he seems to be speaking, breathing, and eating at the same time.
“What new girl?” Thane asks with one eye cracked. Luther is silent as usual, but the crook of his eyebrow gives him away. I scoff at how they immediately perk up like dogs hearing the word “treat”. The addition of new blood always causes a domino effect to the hierarchy here at Dreadhurst—posturingwill escalate to infighting as those at the bottom scramble for a way to the top, and those at the top fight to keep their place. No one here wields enough power to unseat our reign, but there’s always a few who are stupid enough to try—and then we finally get to play.
“Victoria was showing her around yesterday but she cock-blocked me before I could get her name.” My interest piques at the mention of Vivica Hektreia’s youngest daughter. The Councilwoman is just as powerful and ruthless—if not more so—than our parents. Not to mention the rest of the Dark Council.
“Sounds like you’re slipping, Killer,” Thane taunts in his signature raspy voice, raw from smoke as he closes his eyes once more. Killian chuckles without stopping to inhale the steadily decreasing amount of food on his plate.
“That was foreplay, we’re just getting started. It’s about time we got some new blood in here,” he crows with his mouth full, making me cringe inwardly. The vibration of my phone interrupts our conversation, and icy dread drips down my spine when I see who the message is from. Killian and Luther put their forks down, and Thane opens his eyes at the subtle change. By the expression on my face, they all lean in, concealing our conversation from prying eyes and eavesdroppers.
Renard Kovacs
Do you have it yet?
Roth Kovacs
He’s been uncooperative.
Renard Kovacs
