The footage is grainy, shot from a phone camera. It takes me a second to recognize what I’m seeing: the night Wes filmed me getting fucked for the first time. I remember the phone, the promise it wouldn’t show too much. It doesn’t, but it’s obviously me on screen. Every moan, every tremor, every gasped plea.
My cheeks flame. I want to look away, but the five men in black robes are watching the screen, their heads moving in eerie synchronization.
Ford leans in, whispering in my ear. “You look so fucking hot in this, babe.” I don’t know if he’s trying to reassure me or just get off on my humiliation, but my stomach turns all the same.
The video runs for a full minute. When it ends, the man in the center turns back toward us, giving a tiny nod.
“The Invictus is satisfied with the collateral presented. Step forward, initiate.”
My feet move on their own accord, my brain still struggling to process the fact that these masked strangers all just saw me getting railed by the Kings on film. I agreed to send it to Voss, not to show it here. I’m furious, humiliated, but now isn’t thetime to confront the Kings. I’m here for one reason, and one reason only.
I walk forward, the hem of the robe sweeping against the floor, and stop a few feet from the altar. The men don’t move. I stand across from them, hands clasped, head bowed.
“Raise your eyes,” the man in the center orders.
I do.
He slides a knife from the folds of his robe. It’s some sort of ceremonial dagger, the blade curved, the handle carved from bone. He gestures for me to approach, my stomach twisting into knots as I do, my pulse roaring in my ears.
He holds the knife out, blade angled up. “Repeat after me,” he says. “I swear unyielding loyalty to the Invictus. Not to one person, but to the society, above all else.”
“I swear unyielding loyalty,” I say shakily, wetting my lips with my tongue. “To the Invictus. Not to one person, but to the society, above all else.”
“I swear unwavering obedience,” he continues, “to follow orders without question, to trust the wisdom of those who came before.”
I repeat it, my voice growing steadier with every word.
“I swear a lifetime of allegiance. Once this initiation is complete, the only exit is death.”
Again, I repeat the words, even though they taste like poison in my mouth.
The man holds out his hand. “Your palm,” he directs.
I extend my right hand, and he draws the tip of the blade across it, sharp and precise. I wince at the sting, clenching my jaw to try to hide it. Blood wells up instantly, crimson pooling in the center of my palm.
“Close your fist,” he orders.
I comply, squeezing until it hurts.
“Drip your blood onto the altar and speak your oath. Blood in, blood out.”
I step closer, holding my hand over the stone. Drops of red fall, splattering on the rock as I murmur, “Blood in, blood out.”
I feel faint.
“Your presentation is complete,” he states with a curt nod. “Return to your sponsors. You will receive communication regarding your first trial soon.”
I start to shuffle backwards, and the anonymous men in robes turn away, filing toward a door on the other side of the room.
Wes and Ford step up to meet me halfway, their faces shadowed by the hoods. Wes lays a hand on my shoulder, squeezing. Ford lifts my hand, bringing it to his mouth and running his tongue over the still-bleeding cut on my palm, winking.
All four of us go back through the door, back down the corridor. We return to the first chamber and shrug off the robes, hanging them on the hooks. Wes helps me with mine so I don’t get blood all over it, his hands startlingly gentle.
“You did good,” he says quietly.
I still want to punch him for not telling me about that video, but I’m too tired, mental exhaustion taking hold. There’s not much I can do about it now, anyway. It’s already over. Better to focus on what’s still to come– like the trials.
We climb the stairs back up to the mausoleum. It feels colder, emptier than before. Raf locking the door behind us as we leave, the boys’ heads on a swivel as we trudge back to the car.
