Chapter 18

CHAPTER EIGHTEEN

Lucas

As Wyn walks ahead of me to get into my car, I wonder what the fuck I was thinking volunteering to be her watchdog. Ten minutes into this, she steps out of the shower, her skin glistening, and I was ready to rip that towel off and fuck her against the kitchen counter.

Then she had the nerve to come out wearing that short-as-fuck sundress. When she turned around, I could see the underside of her ass. Not to mention the miles and miles of shapely legs that have been wrapped around my waist a thousand times in my imagination.

She's like Medusa with all that supple, dewy skin. One glimpse instantly turns my cock to stone. And if the sight of her barely clothed body has that effect on me, then other guys will react in kind. They may even try to make a move. And I'm really not in the mood to kill people today.

The dress she's wearing now isn't much better. Her legs and ass are covered, but those pretty little tits are boppin' around like molds of gelatin. I can't fucking win. She'll be wearing five pounds of fabric soon anyway, so whatever. Robes are required for every official Burning Crown event.

I drive us both in my car and when we get to Rush House, it's already packed with members. Wyn walks in front of me, and I watch that ass sway as we make our way to the study, then to the dressing room. I grab my robe and carry it out to the study, where the rest of the Sacred Sons are hanging out, waiting to begin the procession down to the beach.

Slipping into my robe, I address the guys. "Has Dorian arrived yet?"

Christian is on the sofa, some random Deb straddling him, her hands buried deep in his robes, doing God knows what. "Yeah, a couple of the senior members already took him down to the beach."

"Cool," I say, securing my hood. "And one of you got the word out that no one should be on the beach past nightfall?"

Initiation rituals are technically against university policy. Scratch that, initiations are absolutely against policy. But we're in a "don't ask, don't tell" arrangement with the administration. So when we say "Stay off the beach" everyone not associated with the Burning Crown knows what that means.

"This isn't our first fucking rodeo," Jackson says, annoyed.

"Whatever, dude," I reply. "It's my first damn rodeo as the leader of you damn fools."

" Leader ?" Christian scoffs. "What, are we a fucking cult now?"

Some might argue that, actually.

Wyn is done putting her robe on and walks out of the dressing room with Alexis. Wyn is swimming in dark wool, the deep hood pulled over her long, wavy hair. Thank God. That lithe body is finally covered up. I wonder if I can convince her to wear that robe all the time.

My eyes follow her as she leaves the room with Alexis. She never looks up at me, never acknowledges me, and for some reason, that pisses me off. This is all a fucking game with her. Ignoring me. Pretending like I don't affect her. It only makes me want to prove her wrong in a dozen delicious ways.

"Alright," I say, already wanting this night over with. "Let's do this thing."

When the Sacred Sons leave, everyone follows us like a procession through the house, down the porch steps, around the front lawn to the sandy path that leads down to the private beach below Rush House.

The bonfire is already lit, the flames dancing, reaching for the neon moon that's hanging low in the night sky. Dorian is already standing with his back to the ocean, hands clasped in front of him, covering his dick and balls. We all file in around him, creating a half-circle, the fire in the center. I catch sight of Wyn as she settles into place, but her eyes are still averted like she's deliberately looking anywhere but at me.

Once we've all taken our places, I step forward and start speaking in the twisted tongue of our forefathers. The words are Latin and I memorized them a long time ago. I've attended a shit ton of these rituals, even as a kid.

Keeping with tradition, I drone on about why we're here, and what the commitments of a Burning Crown member are. They're old words, written by men over a hundred years ago, but they still ring true. "We come together as a family—to protect, to honor, to serve without question or hesitation."

Waves pummel the sand just a few feet in front of us, and a sharp wind whips around us. The palm trees sway overhead, and the fire swells. I hold my hand out in a silent request for the brand, which has been buried in the hot embers since before the ritual started. Lindsay places the iron rod in my hand, and I approach Dorian. "Turn toward our mother ocean and bow your head in humility."

Dorian follows my command, the muscles in his back tense as he lowers his head and constricts his muscles, so he's not shivering. None of the guys want to be seen shivering, but it's so cold out here that it's unavoidable.

I recite the words that welcome him into our fold as I bring the brand down and press it into his back, on the right side. His flesh sizzles, and he tucks his head tighter against his chest, fists clenching, muscles flexing, biting back a scream.

It's fucking brutal, and for the millionth time, I thank the stars that the Sacred Sons aren't branded when we're initiated. When I asked my grandfather about that years ago, he simply said, "The Burning Crown is already branded in our blood."

Really, I think our forefathers just didn't want to do it. They felt like they were above having their sacred bodies marked. That's for the lower echelons. For the sheep, not for the shepherds.

Turning back to Dorian, I recite the closing words of the ritual, and that's the queue for a couple of members to haul Dorian up, and walk him out, into the water. About twenty feet out, there's a giant rock, and drilled into it is a solid metal ring that male initiates are chained to overnight. If he's alive in the morning, then he'll emerge from the ocean as a member of our twisted, toxic family.

Most guys emerge.

As Dorian is hauled off, I turn my attention back to the circle, my eyes searching the faces for Wyn. She's staring off into the distance, and there's something wrong. Her skin looks drained of its color, her mouth parted slightly.

My feet are already in motion, as I make my way across the sand to get to her when she starts to crumple. I sprint across those last couple of feet and manage to catch her in my arms before she hits the sand. She's limp, but I can see right away that she's breathing.

What the fuck?

Lying her down gently on the sand, I push two fingers against her neck to check her pulse. Her heart is beating hard and fast, and I feel a sharp stab of relief. She must have just passed out.

Wyn," I say. "Wake up."

She opens her eyes, blinking up at me. "What happened?"

"You fainted when Dorian was branded," someone replies.

I push her hood back to get a better look at her face, but she flinches and twists her head away from me. "I'm fine," she says.

I grab her chin and pull her head back, so she's looking at me. The fire is behind us, casting her features in a warm glow. Apart from looking a bit dazed, she looks okay.

Releasing her chin, I help her up, but as soon as she's on her feet, she sways. I'm not risking her passing out again, so I pick her up and toss her over my shoulder. She fights me at first, but eventually, she calms down. I'm sure she realizes by now that fighting me is a waste of energy.

My gaze finds my brother. "Yo, I'm taking Wyn home. Can a couple of you sit in tonight?"

There'll be a beach party immediately following the ritual. Everyone drinks, smokes, and dances until the sun comes up. Then they'll welcome the initiate when he emerges from the ocean.

But according to the bylaws, a Sacred Son needs to be present all night. A few days ago, I said I'd do it, but circumstances have obviously changed.

"Yeah, no worries," Christian says. "I'd planned on hanging out anyway."

"Yup," Ash says. "I'll be here, too."

My arm tightens around Wyn's legs. "I'm not ready to go home," she says petulantly, dangling down my back.

I don't even bother responding to that. Instead, I carry her across the beach and up the sandy path. We don't even go inside. I set her down in front of my car, open it, then shove her inside. She falls into the low bucket seat with a huff of air and I walk around the front of the car to the driver's side.

We drive in silence, and we get to her place in five minutes. As I pull up to the front and park, she turns in her seat to face me. "You're not staying tonight."

Slinging my arm over the steering wheel, I shake my head and smile. "It's cute when you think you're in control." I reach out and touch her bottom lip with the pad of my thumb. "I think that's what I like most about you. That delusional brain of yours. It spices things up."

Her eyes narrow, though I notice she doesn't attempt to pull away. Am I making progress with her? But progress towards what? I don't have an answer to that.

She unbuckles her seatbelt and opens the car door. "You can check inside, and then be on your way."

I roll my eyes and step out of the car, walking around to meet her on the walkway that leads up to her studio. It's a straight shot from the street, and I can see ahead that the light above her front door is out, which casts her front step in shadow. And that shadow moves as we approach.

Wyn gasps, her hand darting out to grab my arm. "Did you just see that?"

"I did, actually," I say in a low tone. We're about thirty feet away from her front door, and this person obviously isn't expecting us to be here. The shadow is large, so I'm assuming it's a guy.

"Yo," I call out. I mean, fuck, maybe it's an innocent thing. Like a neighbor dropping off a package. But not gonna lie, this shadow looks suspicious as hell. "Who's there?"

The shadow moves again slightly, then darts off to the left, toward a hillside that leads up to more apartment buildings. I take off after him, but he has a lead on me and before I can get close, he jumps a fence and disappears. I didn't see his face, but he was wearing jeans a black sweatshirt, and a black beanie.

Cursing under my breath, I make my way back to Wyn.

"Was it Gabriel?" she asks eagerly.

My gaze is fixed on the fence line, looking for movement. But whoever it was is long gone. "I didn't see his face." I grab her hand and walk the rest of the way to her door. "Let's get you inside."

I use my key to open the door. When we left, it was still light outside, so the apartment is pitch black when we walk in. The apartment smells fresh, like flowers, and I inhale deeply as Wyn flicks the overhead light on.

"Does anything look messed with?" she asks, tiptoeing around the studio.

"I don't think he made it in," I say. We're both still wearing our robes. They're not supposed to leave Rush House, but I wanted to get her home quickly.

I remove my hood and robe, then start pulling the rest of my clothes off.

"What do you think you're doing?" Wyn asks.

"I'm sitting on the edge of the bed, taking my shoes off," I say in a bored tone.

"I already told you, you're not staying tonight."

I stop what I'm doing and glare up at her. "There was a strange dude on your doorstep a few minutes ago. Do you really want to find out what he'll do when I leave?"

She purses her lips. "Do you think it was Gabriel?"

"No," I snap. "Gabriel is dead." I'm not even trying to sugar-coat it at this point. I need her to accept that he's dead, so we can all move on.

When I stand, the palace is so small that I'm practically toe-to-toe with her. She takes a step back, watching as I unbutton my black dress shirt. I pull it off and toss it aside. Then I peel off my slacks and toss those aside, too.

"Hm." She's trying to appear unaffected, but I can see that spark of interest in her eyes. "Boxer briefs. How predictable."

I tug on the clasp of her robe, so I can take it off her. She doesn't fight me, which is a goddamn miracle. "Why did you faint during the ritual?" I ask pointedly.

Her gaze flicks up to meet mine, and I witness that spark of interest fade to fear. She blinks a few times, before looking away. "I guess I didn't eat enough today."

I pluck the hood off her head and let it fall to the floor, then I push the robe off her shoulders, allowing the fabric to pool at her feet. "I'll tell you what," I say, tracing the tip of my finger over the swell of her very generous cleavage. "You tell me the truth…" I lean in and whisper in her ear. "...and I won't make the punishment hurt too bad…"