My gaze drifted to my palm. “The asshole won’t be missed.”
Blair’s blood was still smeared across the cut I’d carved into my skin. Dark, sticky, slowly drying between the lines of my hand.
I stared down at it, fascinated by how her blood looked mingled with mine. Something about it felt intoxicating. I couldn’t wait for the next time.
Black iron sconces burned along the concrete walls while we walked through the underground passageway. Our boots echoed through the tunnel. The sound echoed off the walls in hollow vibrations.
The symbols carved into the stone always felt like they were following me as we passed them.
They were marks no outsider would ever understand.
The First Benefactors—the original Night Sons who had founded Saint Vale—had built these tunnels long before the university rose above them.
Miles of hidden passageways stretched beneath campus, splitting into chambers, corridors, and rooms that only we knew how to navigate.
Despite being a century old, the tunnels were in immaculate condition. Every generation of Night Sons maintained them. They were regular visitors here, whether they still attended the university or had graduated years ago.
Blood had been spilled here for decades. Enemies killed. Deals made.
The Night Sons weren’t just a secret society whispered about as rumors. This was a lifetime commitment. We took an oath for life, and in return, we were granted power, access, and control.
Every one of us was destined to rule something—governments, bloodlines, corporations, or criminal empires.
My father had taught me early that real power wasn’t owning land or money. The real power was owning people across every tier of society. We made sure power never slipped through our fingers.
For us, Saint Vale wasn’t just a university. It was a hunting ground.
A recruitment tool to advance our agendas.
It opened doors for us to further rule the world.
When we reached Locker Hall, Cassian and I stepped to the steel door and scanned our fingerprints against the black panel. Two sharp beeps, and the lock released.
Inside, iron lockers stretched along both walls, but they weren’t lockers in the traditional way. Behind them lay more hidden rooms. Armories and storage vaults. This was where wekept our weapons, tools, and anything else we didn’t leave lying around.
Every locker had a symbol. Not a name.
Emeri sat on a stool in front of his locker, his long legs stretched out as he methodically sharpened his favorite knife with obsessed precision.
The blade had been custom-made in Italy by a famous weaponsmith. His father—Emilio Lastro, a Lombardi Mafia capo—had purchased it for him there. It was Emeri’s most prized possession.
The overhead light above him caught the pale scars that cut across his face. Some thin, some thick, and some faded.
Emeri raised his chin when he noticed us. That was always his version of a greeting. Of the Night Sons, he was the quietest. He wasn’t shy, just always uninterested in conversation.
Cassian and I dumped our masks and weapons on the steel table in the center of the room. I wiped the blood clean from my scissors and knife with a cloth before tossing both into the disposal bin.
The launderer would come in the morning to collect the items and dispose of them properly. He’d also scrub the place spotless.
“You good?” I asked Emeri as I pulled my hoodie over my head and tossed it into the bin beside the weapons.
He gave me a simple thumbs-up without looking at me before testing the sharpness of his blade by dragging it lightly across his forearm. A cut opened on his skin, blood seeping through it. He frowned, displeased, and returned to his sharpening.
Cassian and I changed into clean hoodies and pants from our lockers.
I crouched to tighten my shoelaces and gave Emeri a mock salute. “Later, asshole. Try not to hit bone when you’re playing with that knife. You’re already a walking scar magazine.”
The knife took the place of his finger when he flipped us off.
