I think he likes me. Bless his ignorance. If he only knew what I have in store for him.
In the meantime, I called Michael and asked him to meet me. I need to see just how completely Alaric bought the fairy tale that I’m gone for good.
The sky above me is swollen with clouds, ready to burst. Any minute now, it’ll pour. Hopefully, Michael shows up before then, because as much as I love the thrill, I hate riding in the rain. It feels too much like drowning alive.
Thankfully, there he is, arriving with his car, pretending to be a normal citizen.
“Glad to see you’re still alive,” he mocks with that bright smile.
“I could never die and leave you stuck with the hard work,” I shoot back, arms crossed and smirking.
His smile widens as he strolls up to me, arms outstretched, and drags me into a hug.
“It’s good to see you, buddy,” he says, patting me on the back.
“Good to see you too.”
He draws back, pulls a smoke packet from his jeans pocket, and lights one up.
“Didn’t you quit that shit?” I ask, obviously disgusted.
“I did.” He inhales it. “But the latest task I was assigned to causes me stress.”
I used to smoke when I was a teenager, and for a while after. Then, life turned into pure hell. I went broke, ended up homeless, and couldn’t afford food, let alone cigarettes. Going back home for help wasn’t an option. My dear brother Cain—the one Atticus didn’t kill—had already taken over Mother’s companies and was running his filthy little mafia empire, or whatever cesspool he calls a world. I never wanted a piece of it, and I never will.
Maybe I was just throwing a toddler’s tantrum, clutching at a grudge—but he left. He left me stuck at home, dealing with Father, Atticus, and the rest of the circus freaks, while I played the idiot holding the fort to cover his ass. Some brotherly love, huh?
“It somehow keeps me sane,” he adds, sucking smoke through clenched teeth.
Poor Michael. He wasn’t born a killer, and he can’t cope with it. Alaric practically bought his loyalty by helping his family so they wouldn’t end up on the street, trapping him in a never-ending cycle of fake loyalty and blood on his hands that he can’t stand. He still tries to pretend it’s something he craves so he blends with the rest.
I lean back against the bike, hands shoved into my pockets. “Alright, spill the tea. It’s been days, and I’m starving for gossip.”
A sharp, decisive sigh escapes his lips. “I became Alaric’s new favorite killer.”
I tilt my head. “Fuck off.” He keeps his eyes away and flicks the ash. “You’re kidding me.”
He shakes his head, dragging his smoke like a maniac. “I wish I was.”
Great.
Michael is in charge now. That means responsibility for training, discipline, and death. All the thingsIhandled after Alaric’s choice. If he can’t carry it, Alaric will make him. The work is simple and ugly. Condition them, break them, make them choose. It’s about drills and orders and forcing the animal out of you. Me or them.
Becoming the fraternity’s commander isn’t some badge of honor. It’s not a promotion or “wow, the boss picked me.”You get your hands filthy, do what others won’t, and learn just how far down you can crawl. It’s a fucking death sentence.
“And how are you putting up with it?” I ask.
“Not good, man. I’m not you.”
I scoff with a smile. “The world doesn’t need another me.”
“Yeah, well … maybe the world doesn’t, but this place sure as hell does. I don’t know how you handled this shit.”
Training.
That’s what they called it, but it wasn’t running through the woods or racing a damn clock. It was getting dragged into a river and held under until your lungs forgot what air felt like. It was being buried alive with nothing but a spoon and your heartbeat for company. It was the plastic bag tightening around your face while your brothers laughed, testing how much you could take before you stopped fighting.
They said it built loyalty. What it really built was monsters who knew how to smile through the taste of their own blood.
