Not just anyone would know what it means, but I do. Because I wear the same one. Everyone in this room does. But just because you get one doesn’t mean you’ll keep it.
I reach down and grab his hand. He begins to shout behind the tape as he tries to fight me, but I remove the ring easily and walk back around to stand in front of him.
“You don’t deserve this,” I say to him, placing it in my pocket. “You betrayed us, your brothers, yourself. The payment for that is death.”
When he throws his head back and screams into the tape, I press the knife to his neck, right below his jawline. His breathing fills the room, and his body strains, waiting for the first cut.
A Lord does not show mercy. Blood and tears are what we demand from those who betray us.
I press the tip of the knife into his neck, puncturing his skin enough for a thin line of blood to drip from the wound.
He begins to cry, tears running down his already bloody face.
“I uphold my duty. For I am a Lord. I know no boundaries when it comes to my servitude. I will obey, serve, and dominate,” I recite our oath. “For my brother, I am a friend. I shall lay my life down for thee or take it.” I stab the knife into his right thigh, forcing a muffled scream from his taped lips before yanking it out, letting the blood soak into his jeans while it drips off the end of the knife onto the concrete floor. “For we are what others wish to be.” Circling him, I run the tip down his forearm, splitting the skin like I did his neck. “We will be held accountable for our actions.” I stab him in the left thigh and tug it out as his sobbing continues. “For they represent who we truly are.”
Jerking on the collar of his shirt, I rip it down the middle to expose his chest and stomach. The same crest that’s on our rings is burned into his chest. It’s what we are given once we pass our trials. Gripping the skin, I pull on it as far as I can with my right hand, then slide the blade through it with my left, cutting it from his body.
He sobs, snot flying out of his nose as the blood pours from the gaping hole in his skin. His body begins to shake while he fists his hands and thrashes in his chair. I throw the skin to the floor to rest at his feet. A souvenir for later.
I walk behind him. The only sound in the room is his cries muffled by the duct tape. I grab his hair, yanking his head back, and force his hips off the chair. His Adam’s apple bobs when he swallows. I look down into his tear-filled eyes. “And you, my brother … are a traitor.” Then I slice the blade across his neck, splitting it wide open. His body goes slack in the chair as the blood pours from the open wound like a waterfall, drenching his clothes instantly.
“Impressive.” The man who handed me the knife begins to clap while silence now fills the room. Walking over to me, I throw the bloody knife up in the air, catching it by the tip of the blade and holding it out to him.
He comes to a stop and gives me a devious smile. “I knew you’d be one to watch.” With that, he takes the knife, then turns and walks away.
I stand, still breathing heavily, now covered in not only my blood but a fellow brother’s. Lifting my head, I look up at the two-way mirror on the second-floor balcony, knowing I’m being watched and knowing that I just passed my first test with flying colors.
CHAPTER TWO
INITIATION
RYAT
DEVOTION
SOPHOMORE YEAR AT BARRINGTON UNIVERSITY
THE RAIN FALLS from the sky, soaking my clothes and making them stick to my skin. I kneel in the middle of the ring. Water mixed with my blood swirls on the ground around me.
I take a second to catch my breath and regain a little bit of strength because the rain makes it harder to connect. My opponent stands opposite me with his fisted hands up, covering his face while he bounces from foot to foot like he’s a fighter getting paid millions to show off to the world for a pay-per-view fight.
I guess, in a way, it is a show. Just not televised. And there is no payout. Your reward is you get to keep breathing.
“Get up!” he yells at me. “Get the fuck up, Ryat!”
Smiling, I make my way to my feet and drop my hands to my sides, letting him think he has me. As if I’m that fucking weak not to fight back.
He charges me, and I step to my left at the last second as he drops his shoulder. I kick my leg out, tripping him. He lands on his face, sliding in the puddle of water, and the crowd hollers.
“Tell me, Jacob. Just how bad do you want to die?” I ask and hear the others laugh at my question.
An audience is always needed. Your fellow brothers must witness your devotion. Otherwise, it doesn’t exist.