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“Jealous we never invited you to a sleepover?” Marcus asks.
Patrick scoffs and turns to Liam. “Previous generations were too intimidated to challenge a Crotavere. I’m not. When Harold dies, I’m cleansing this Order and taking it somewhere useful. More power. More money. No more of this family loyalty bullshit.”
He storms out before we can respond, the door slamming with a crack that shudders through the walls.
Silence follows.
The thought of Patrick Connelly calling himself Sovereign is enough to make me want to drown the entire inheritance and walk away. He never cared about tradition or loyalty, much less the history of the Order.
My family built businesses and wealth from the ground up. A network of people was brought in and raised with us. Patrick would set it all on fire if he thought he could warm his little hands over the flames.
Perhaps this is my punishment for surviving. Spared by an angel only to watch the world I was bred to inherit begin rotting from the inside.
Lucian flips open his switchblade with a soft metallic click. “Can’t we just kill him?”
Liam drops into his chair like the last ten minutes aged him a decade. “Killing another member of the Order is forbidden. You know this.”
Marcus grins. “Rules are made to be broken.”
“Not these,” Liam says quietly.
The room stills again.
His tone is enough to remind us that this isn’t a minor issue to sweep away. Patrick’s challenge isn’t merely offensive. It’s destabilizing. A crack in the foundation, while my father is too weak to stand.
But even now, my thoughts drift back to Zaiya.
The warmth of her hands against my chest.
The terror in her voice when she said Asher had been shot.
The idea of that girl being caught inside this Order, forced to navigate men like Patrick, burns straight into fury.
If that bastard ever sat in power over anything Zaiya touched, I would kill him gladly and accept all consequences.
My gaze lifts to the portraits lining the wall.
My father. Grandpa Wallace. Grandpa Elias, who dared to dream all this into existence. All staring out with the same hard severity every Crotavere man seems to inherit. Three generations of command.
And I'm supposed to become the fourth. Another portrait on the wall. Another Crotavere carrying what the last one left behind. No victory would ever be mine alone. My surname would claim half the credit. And I’m not one to share.
Worse, I'd actually have to keep the damn thing alive. Hundreds of men depending on me to make responsible decisions sounds like an excellent way to become the Crotavere remembered for running the Order into the ground.
A long sigh slips from me. I’m irritated by the simple truth that I was supposed to be gone by now.
Instead, I’m here.
“Are we done here?” Tristan asks.
Liam looks from one brother to the next. “Which of you is willing to run for Sovereign?”
Every eye in the room slides to me, of course. I look at the ceiling for a second and breathe deeply.
“Reese is better suited for it.” I nod towards him. Then gesture to the unfortunate middle child. “And Tristan is fucking a Councilman’s daughter. He’d have support.”
Tristan stiffens. He hates when anyone mentions his woman.
I turn to consider Marcus and Lucian—one grinning like a madman, the other glaring like he’d rather stab somebody than govern them—and gesture back to Reese and Tristan.
