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I don’t take my eyes off Roark’s sleeping face as I exit the nursery and make my way back down to my office. Rounding the desk of scattered papers, I take my seat on the leather chair and lay Roark against my chest, where my shirt is partially unbuttoned. Kicking my feet up on the desk, I hold him against me, focusing on the breaths that flutter in and out of him.

My son. Each time the words chime in my head, a rush of tingles follows.

This small, trusting little bundle is mine. Truly mine. Annoying as hell, but mine. Perhaps the only thing that will ever really belong to me, for as long as I live. The thought of such a thing stirs something inside of me. A sensation pulled from the depths of me, because it’s surely one I’ve never felt before.

I think about him lying in that crib moments ago, screaming and cold, with his mother only a few feet away, and my lip peels back in disgust. Petting his back, I take in his tiny size against my chest. So small and fragile, and suddenly, I want to protect him.

My son.

For the first time, I understand my father’s words all those years ago.

And I would kill for what’s mine.

Chapter 39

Lucian

Present day ...

I lead the group of men through the long and winding tunnels of the catacombs. A cold chill skates over my skin as we pass the sarcophagus I had carved for Amelia, as well as the much smaller one for my son. Even now, years later, after the many times I sat down here alone with my thoughts, an ache still blooms inside my chest at the sight of my son’s memorial.

The tunnels open up into a wide cavern, where tables line the perimeter of an enormous floor medallion made up of black, gray and brown pewabic tiles I had imported from Detroit. The center of the medallion carries the likeness of the moth with its skull on the thorax.

Patrick Boyd is led into the circle of tables, blindfolded as every member in the room once stood. Each of the men takes a seat, all of them still wearing their masks from the party.

Following the fiasco with my mother, I had all the women leave at once, along with anyone else not a member of our collective, and I’m looking forward to the end of this inquiry so I can seek out distraction for my humiliation in Isa.

Seeing Patrick’s hands on her triggered a potent rage inside of me, an uncontrollable desire to break every one of his fingers. The sooner I get him out of my sight, the better.

Friedrich Voigt, whom I’ve come to have a completely different relationship with since my time spent at the institute, takes his seat at the head of the table.

I take my seat directly beside him.

Standing before the members, Friedrich clears his throat, a sound that echoes in the cavernous room. “Gentlemen, we are here today based on an inquiry into our collective. It’s come to my attention that Patrick Boyd--”

“Former mayor,” Patrick interrupts, and I mentally groan. If he’s granted membership, he’ll learn very quickly that Dr. Voigt isn’t one who appreciates interruptions. Particularly the rude and unnecessary variety.

“Has come to us in search of knowledge and a deeper understanding of the human psyche,” Friedrich goes on, ignoring Patrick’s ignorance. “For decades, our group has studied behavioral epigenetics of sadism. And now I ask you, Patrick Boyd, what contributions do you feel you would make to our collective?”

Fingers entwined, Patrick swirls his thumbs around each other, a nervous habit, as he stands quiet, seeming to contemplate the question. He shifts on his feet and clears his throat. “Well, I’m not a doctor, or scientist on the subject, but I am a former teacher, and I have encountered a number of personalities throughout the course of my political career that make me question if there may be a link between politicians and this psychopathic behavior that you’re studying.”

“Sadism, specifically. And we already know there is a link between politics and psychopathy. Organizational psychopaths tend to be naturally drawn to leadership roles, which allow them to control a large number of people. While your curiosities are interesting, I’m afraid they’re nothing new.” The boredom in Friedrich’s tone is telling, and I suspect he’s already made up his mind about Patrick’s inquiry.

A long pause follows, and Patrick lowers his head, perhaps feeling defeated. I already knew, from my conversation with him, that his motivations weren’t aligned with our group.

“I actually have a twin. Identical. He’s serving a life sentence in prison for a … very brutal murder.” His confession skates down my spine, and I look back at him, wishing I could rip off that blindfold to see his eyes, to know that he’s bullshitting the group for the sole purpose of gaining entry. “We didn’t grow up together. I was adopted by a good family. He, on the other hand, grew up in a very poor community. I don’t talk about this because … well, why would I? But I would like to understand. To know if whatever he endured was based on genetics that might affect me. Or if his environment contributed to his violence.”

Friedrich sits forward, and the intrigue on his face sends a sinking feeling to the pit of my stomach. It seems Patrick isn’t as stupid as I thought. Seems he’s done his homework.

The entire foundation of this group is rooted in the study of twins, specifically identical, as their genetics represents the best model for study. Of course Friedrich would find this compelling. “Interesting.” Tapping his fingers together, Friedrich scans the group. “We’ll take a brief moment to discuss this as a group. I’ll ask that you leave the room, Patrick.”

One of the members escorts Patrick out of the cavern and down the hall. Once he’s out of sight, Friedrich exhales a sharp breath. “Well, that was certainly a turn of events there.”

There’s no way I’m going to let the bomb Patrick dropped blow up in my face. “One worth investigating. He may be lying.”

“Certainly. And we will need to determine that. However, if it’s true, he may be the perfect specimen for our study.” Friedrich sighs, leaning back in his chair. “If only your son were here today. We’d have a third generation sampling to see if those genetic markers are present in him, as well.”

“My son was not a sampling. He was a child.” I have to be careful with the man. One wave of his hand, and I could instantly become an enemy to this group.