The one that had become my favorite.
I knew Enzo more than I wanted to admit.
When I slept, he visited my dreams. When I was awake, he occupied my daydreams.
“Keep surviving, Blair,” I whispered to myself, clueless as to what was coming next in this Initiation to hell.
Eighteen
Blair
Please be over.Please be over. Please be over.
My limbs tingled with every step as I moved through the tunnel. I clung to the delusional hope that this was the end of the Initiation.
I suppressed an angry laugh.
From the hell these men had already put me through—not only today, but since the moment I’d arrived at Saint Vale—I knew better. They weren’t done with me yet.
The corridor stretched on in the same dull gray. I kept my breathing steady and counted my steps. Anything to keep my mind from spiraling.
I stared at the guy in front of me, wondering if they had Initiations too. If they did, I hoped they were brutal.
The thought of them getting beaten up sparked satisfaction inside me. They deserved the pain.
I was at least thankful that, whoever this guy was, he wasn’t manhandling me. He kept a careful distance as he walked ahead of me.
Is it Cedric?
He was the only one of Enzo’s friends I could put a name to.
A pang of regret hit me for not grabbing the gun before I left.I could’ve attempted to conceal it. Insurance, just in case I needed to save my life.
Though with the scraps they’d dressed me in, hiding a weapon would’ve been nearly impossible.
I was proud of myself for not breaking and using the gun.
Whatever was next, I’d keep staying strong.
We stopped at a door marked with a symbol I didn’t recognize. The man opened it and stepped aside, gesturing for me to enter first.
Nausea burned through my belly as hot and fierce as my fear. Being alone with him in such a cramped space was the last thing I wanted.
Scratch that.Being chained to a wall, hearing that fucking lullaby, was worse. This was a close second.
The door clicked shut, and my mind instantly went to the worst-case scenario. I was nearly naked and alone with a masked man.
Without a word, he unhooked a black robe and tossed it toward me. “Put that on.”
I caught it before it hit the ground.
I quickly slipped it on, clutching it around my body as if it were my only source of warmth in a blizzard.
He stood there silently, arms crossed, while I took my time fastening the robe. The robe was heavy and ceremonial.
Directly over the heart, a red heart had been stitched into the fabric. At the cuff, a single letter—B—was embroidered above a pair of antlers in silver thread.
“Lift the hood,” he instructed.
