Chapter 5

L auren fidgets beside me while we scout the crowds for targets. We only get a very short window to create as much damage as possible, so we need to ensure we’re in a prime location before we open fire on the members. Carlo and Keith disappeared into the crowds earlier.

It was surprisingly easy to get in. Once the chips in our necks had been scanned, we were let through and handed a glass of champagne upon entering.

Champagne that probably costs more than I can even imagine. While I’m tempted to sip it, I don’t want to accept anything gifted here. This organization, this event, is behind my parents’ deaths.

I’m discreetly pouring the drink into a large plant when warmth envelops my back, and a deep baritone speaks into my ear, “Is my champagne not to your liking, Miss van der Meer?”

That voice.

My blood freezes to ice at the mention of my real name. How did he find out? I straighten up, pretending I’m not quaking on the inside. “Your champagne? It’s funded by your little boys’ club, is it not?”

As I turn around, I am confronted by his expensive pressed suit, a warthog mask that covers half his face, and piercing frosty eyes. His cardamom and tonka bean scent invades more than just my senses when his lips pull to the side in a dirty smirk that’s all sex.

He takes the flute from my hand and passes it to a waiter without breaking eye contact. “The champagne was my contribution to tonight’s event. I had it imported directly from France. The champagne you used to water the plant costs 1.6 million dollars per bottle.”

“So you have a lot of money. Impressive.” I let my gaze wander, but I’m shaking on the inside.

“Is that sarcasm?”

When I pin him with my eyes, I’m struck by the intensity in his. “Wow. Not only are you rich, but you’re smart too.”

“What can I say? I’m a catch.”

Light laughter bubbles up from my chest before I can stop it. I try to push past him, but he steps in my way, towering over me with his six-foot-three frame and deadly smirk. “Bachelor of the year, several years running.”

“Good for you.” This is my opportunity to reach for my knife and stab him, so why am I hesitating?

“What I can’t figure out”—he fingers a strand of my hair, causing my breath to catch—“is why you’re back, Miss van der Meer. This is a dangerous place for an orphaned heiress like yourself.”

The mention of my deceased parents has years of suppressed anger rushing to the surface. I push on his chest, but he’s as immovable as a mountain. When he still doesn’t shift, I part the slit in my dress and grab my gun, but I’m stopped by his hand on my wrist. Surprised, I glance up.

“Allow me,” he says, sliding the gun from the holster strapped to my thigh. My throat dries up at his sensual, slow touch. Who knew retrieving a loaded weapon from a holster could be so sexual? Delacroix takes his time removing it, brushing his fingers up the inside of my thigh, and I swallow hard, eyes locked on his smirking mouth. I never knew teeth could be sexy, but those sharp incisors look threatening in the dim light.

The moment his fingers curl around the gun, I lift my eyes to his and fight a shiver. Delacroix is fucking me with his dark gaze.

The weapon slides from the holster slowly, and he uses the gun to brush a lock of hair away from my brow and then places it in my hand. My heart pounds hard as he guides the barrel to his chest, right over his heart.

Leaning in close, he whispers against the corner of my mouth. “Put a bullet in my heart, Miss van der Meer. It would be a mercy, for you have me under your spell.”

Who talks like that? What is he? A duke from Shakespearean times? His spicy scent drugs me as much as his warm breath against my parted lips. He places a kiss at the corner, and my heart threatens to break free when his prickly beard brushes against my chin.

Christ… I gulp, my knees growing weak. We stare at each other, suspended in a bubble of sexual tension and something else. Something unspoken and dark. In my mind’s eye, he slams his sinful lips to mine, kissing me senselessly while stealing the breath from my lungs with strokes of his tongue. In my mind’s eye, I pull the trigger and clutch his blood-soaked shirt to keep his knees from buckling from beneath him. In my mind’s eye, he bleeds out in front of me.

A commotion startles me from my haze, and I look behind him to see Keith open fire on the crowd. Piercing screams and chaos erupt as people scatter. It happens in slow motion and reminds me of fireworks.

Delacroix shields me with his body, forcing me behind the large plant pot. He exudes calm as he aims and shoots three times.

Keith collapses to the marble floor, clutching his bleeding hand, while men dressed in sharp uniforms storm the room to haul him away.

I try to rush past Delacroix, but he digs the gun into my forehead and forces me deeper into the shadows until we’re shielded by the plant.

“You’re not going anywhere.” His arctic eyes deepen in color as he plants his free hand over my mouth. The cool wall is at my back. There’s no escape. I try to reach for one of the knives strapped to my skin, but he rams his leg between my thighs, and the pressure against my clit has a whimper brushing against his big palm.

“Your friend made a mockery of my hospitality tonight, Miss van der Meer. You see, I knew you were heading here before you even stepped out of the Antichrist’s stronghold.” When my eyes widen, he tightens his grip on my mouth and grinds his thigh against my damp lace panties. “I knew your plans, sweetheart. I knew and still let you and your friends enter these premises unharmed.”

It dawns on me then that I brought my friends to their deaths. What happens next is my fault. We were na?ve and thought we stood a chance at taking the Exodus by surprise—and it would have been worth the sacrifice if I hadn’t foiled our plans by catching the eye of a monster. As I drown in his bottomless ocean, I know he’ll never let me go.

“Now,” he whispers, dragging his thigh across my damp slit, “what am I to do with you, little troublemaker? Or are you a thrill seeker?” His eyes burn into me. “You seem to enjoy danger. Here’s the thing: danger comes with a hefty price.”

If he didn’t keep his hand firmly clamped over my mouth, I would tell him to fuck off. Since that’s not an option, I settle for letting my eyes speak for me instead. Judging by his dark chuckle, the fury amuses him. Those sharp canines reappear, gleaming in the shadows. His hint of a smile is breathtaking.

An exhale escapes through my nostrils, and I whimper, a puddle at his feet. Noticing, he shifts his hand from my mouth to my throat and wraps his long fingers around me, seductive and threatening. My life is in his hands. As he squeezes, I gasp, trapped between his hard body and the wall, pinned like a butterfly by the reaper.

“Such a delicate little thing,” he murmurs, eyes on his hand around my throat. “So breakable.” I feel him caress my pulse point, my skin burning beneath his corrupt touch. He applies pressure, and my clit pulses almost painfully. Delacroix is a weapon. A deadly hurricane. A firestorm.

Darkness invades the edges of my vision as I claw at his wrists, gasping for a sliver of breath.

Just as fast, his touch disappears, and he pulls me away from the door, guiding me through the crowd with a possessive hand on the small of my back. There’s no point fighting him. I’d be dead before I could reach for a weapon. Besides, my advantage of surprise is gone. The truth is, I never had it. Delacroix knew I was here all along. He was never chasing shadows. No, he waited for his prey to walk willingly into his trap before he showed his cards.

His fingers burn the small of my back as we walk up the winding staircase to the second floor. He moves like a king—a man who commands power and respect.

Pawns and Disciples lower their heads as we pass, but the man at my side ignores them, his attention on me. He’s not looking in my direction, but I know he’s aware of my every inhale.

We enter an office, a vast space with a desk and a separate seating area. Large wing-backed chairs face an impressive fireplace with intricate carvings. Not an item is out of place. Music pulses through the walls, disturbed by voracious laughter and the occasional fearful scream.

I can’t look away from my friends near the window, each flanked by a massive security guard. Keith’s injured hand is bleeding profusely, and so is his kneecap. There’s duct tape on his lips, and his arms are tied behind him. He’s staring straight ahead, refusing to make eye contact with anyone. Delacroix is an excellent shot, so it’s not lost on me that he kept Keith alive. But why? He’s not capable of mercy.

Carlo bleeds from a cut on his lip, his right eye swollen shut. He’s trying to remain brave, but every time the security guard shifts behind him—however slight—he flinches. Lauren is the only one crying, her loud sobs adding to the tension.

Delacroix crouches in front of me and trails his warm fingers from my ankle to my thigh, pausing to palm the back of my knee and bring it to his lips. His touch is gentle, like a lover, but he can’t fool me. There’s a darkness within him that can’t be leashed or tamed. He’s unpredictable and dangerous.

He lowers my knee and relieves me of every weapon strapped to my legs except for one—a butterfly knife strapped to the inside of my thigh.

Our eyes meet as he rises and hands the weapons to a masked Disciple who whisks off just as fast. It’s a test, I realize, as he saunters to the bar and proceeds to remove his mask and pour himself a glass of bourbon. He’s curious to see what I’ll do. Am I gutsy enough to use my weapon?

The liquid splashes against the sides as I try to catch Keith’s gaze, but his jaw clenches. They must wonder why I’m not tied up like them, with a burly guard behind me. I ask the same thing. My fingers itch to grab the knife and hurl it at Delacroix—God knows my aim would ring true; I’ve practiced long enough. But it would be foolish. Delacroix would punish not only me, but my friends.

The minutes tick by while he types on his phone and sips his expensive bourbon without glancing in my direction. It’s another mind game. I try not to fidget.

Throw the knife.

Do it.

“These are your friends, are they not, Miss van der Meer?” He pockets his phone and swirls the tumbler, watching me from beneath his dark lashes. Taking a long sip, he says, “I’m curious. Do they know who you are?” His steps carry him closer until his mysterious scent swirls around me like the electric summer air before a storm. I greedily fill my lungs with his poison. He’s close enough now that his heat warms me through his dress shirt. I smell the bourbon on his breath when he tips my chin up with his fingers.

I jerk away, but he tightens his grip, touching me like I’m already his. “Do they know you’re one of us?”

“I’ll never be one of you,” I hiss.

He falters then with his fingers on my jaw. I stand my ground, allowing him to remove my mask. A disciple materializes and takes it. Delacroix keeps his sole attention on me, skimming his thumb over the swell of my bottom lip. Everything he does is a sensual act—from how he touches me, looks at me with those frosty eyes, or allows his bourbon-scented breath to dance across my lips—but I’m not stupid. His touch could force pleasure or pain. It could give life or snuff it out.

“Wrong,” he says, sounding so self-assured I want to punch him square in the nose. “You’re already one of us.” Cupping my chin, he touches me with reverence, whispering secrets with his gaze. “You can spit fire at me all you want with those big eyes, but it doesn’t change who you are, sweetheart.”

I suck in a breath when he releases my chin. His powerful shoulders shift beneath his dress shirt while he circles me. Every time he walks behind me, the hairs on my neck stand on edge. Delacroix seems even bigger. I feel so small next to him, and it’s both exhilarating and infuriating.

As he sizes me up like a predator, I stand my ground with my chin tilted high, refusing to look weak. A man like Delacroix could smell it a mile away if I lowered my guard. My pride is my greatest weapon. Surely, I must have cards to play, or why are my friends and I alive? He could have killed us downstairs to make an example out of us, but I have something he wants. A weapon I can yield. But what? I’m glancing in my friends’ direction when the door opens and a group of men enters. Three of whom wear gold masks. They line up against the back wall with their hands clasped in front of them.

Elders.

I’ve heard about this. Witnesses. They’re here to witness Delacroix present his offering.

A cold sliver of panic coils my insides. This is bad news. I pause when I spot the last man in the procession. Father Faulkner. So the rumors are true—his pockets are full of corrupt money. Cheeks flushed with anger, my chest tightens. This is the same priest who married my parents.

Sweat beads on his forehead as he greets Delacroix, casting a few worried glances toward my friends, looking anxious. I reach for the knife in my slit, ready to bulls-eye him between the brows.

Delacroix turns in my direction. “Miss van der Meer.”

I straighten, the skirt falling back into place.

“No need to look so worried. These gentlemen are my closest allies. I’d trust them with my life. You can rest assured that the truth won’t leave this room. You have my word.” He sweeps his hand toward my friends. “You were a good girl and brought my offerings to the party.”

No, no, no.

Three heads swivel in my direction. I can’t even look at my friends.

“That’s not... I didn’t?—”

Delacroix sucks out the oxygen in the air as he walks up to me and cups my chin. He pierces me with his eyes, then whispers so only I can hear, “You’re not in a position to fight me, miss. It’s in your best interest to accept your defeat with grace. Your friends’ lives rely on your cooperation. Defy me, and I kill them without hesitation. You don’t want their blood on your hands, sweetheart. Do you?”

I set my jaw. Fuck him if he thinks I’ll roll over and let my friends think I betrayed them, but then… What other choice do I have?

Delacroix’s smirk grows. “Good girl.”

I jerk my chin away as he steps around me and slides my hair away from my neck in a possessive touch I feel down to my toes. Everything about him is calculative. He takes his sweet time, eyeing my friends from behind me before leaning down to press a hot kiss against the curve of my neck.

I shiver at the feel of his lips and clench my hands. Why does his touch have to feel so nice? Why is the threat behind it so delicious?

He straightens up and walks away, leaving me in the wake of his enticing cologne and tingling kiss on my neck. With his hands behind his back, he saunters to my friends, and Lauren yelps when he grabs her chin, tilting her face left to right, inspecting her like cattle at a market. I want to hurt Delacroix, but all I have are my words, so I hiss, “Don’t touch her.”

Ignoring me, he moves down the line until he stops in front of Keith. “You must be the leader.”

Keith meets his disgusted yet lazy gaze head-on, his nostrils flaring as he tries to reign in his emotions.

“That wasn’t a smart move you pulled.”

Keith spits at him.

Gasps ring out around the room, but the Elders at my back remain deadly silent. My heart beats so hard I struggle to breathe. Delacroix accepts a tissue handed to him by one of the Disciples and wipes his shirt clean of spittle while chill-inducing screams filter through the walls, and then he hands it to the Disciple, who bows before retreating into the background. “I believe you’re familiar with our traditions, Mr. Turnbull,” he says, proving that he’s done his research. Proving that he made true to his promise to hunt me. “I should kill you for your insolence alone, but I respect tradition, so you’ll get to choose.” He pauses for effect. “Join the Exodus or die.”

Keith turns red with fury. “I will never join the Exodus.”

“Very well,” Delacroix says, dismissive, as he turns away and inclines his chin to one of the Elders behind me. “Mr. Vanderbilt. He’s all yours.”

The man behind me steps forward, and the guard behind Keith shoves him to make him move. I rush to Delacroix. “What are they doing? Where are they taking him?” Frantic, I try to get to Keith, but Delacroix blocks my path. “Mr. Vanderbilt has offered a hefty sum for your friend.”

“Paid you?” I try to move past him again. They’re nearly at the door. “Keith!” I shout.

Delacroix leans in close. “Mr. Vanderbilt has a penchant for torture. He’ll cut your friend into tiny pieces while he’s still alive and drag his death out for hours, maybe even days.”

“Days? But the Reckoning?—”

“Mr. Vanderbilt is one of the richest men on the planet. His bank account ensures he’ll never see the inside of a prison cell.”

With my adrenaline pumping, I fling myself at Delacroix in my bid to get past, but he grips my shoulders and hauls me back, proving yet again how much stronger he is than me. “You can stop this, Miss van der Meer.”

Strands of wild hair tickle my lips as I breathe harshly. He’s still holding me by the shoulders while I flick my eyes between his, trying to make sense of this horror in my panicked state. “What do you mean?”

“I’ve seen Mr. Vanderbilt’s demon in action. There’s no worse death. But you”—he sets me on my feet and brushes my hair away from my brow—“can give him a fast, dignified death.”

Keith roars in the background as he wrestles with the guard. Another one joins in, and the sound of his furious shouts breaks something inside me.

“Okay,” I hear myself whispering. “I’ll do it.”

Warm fingers caress my cheek. Delacroix looks like the devil himself. He smiles slowly, soaking in his moment of victory, and then he glides his eyes past me as he calls out, “Mr. Vanderbilt. You can keep your money.”

I can’t look him in the eye anymore. He’s playing a sadistic game, and I want no part in it, yet I know it’s Reckoning night. Traditions must be honored. There’s no room for mercy. If an Offering chooses death over a chance to join the Exodus, no amount of begging on my end can change the outcome. Keith has made his choice.

Mr. Vanderbilt grumbles but lets the guards drag Keith deeper into the room. They toss him at my feet. The guard delivers a hard kick to his side, and I wince. All the while, Delacroix studies me closely with that small, sadistic smirk of his.

“Van der Meer has offered you a swift death,” he explains. He must see the question in Keith’s enraged eyes, because he continues. “Her real name is Cecilia van der Meer, daughter of Charles van der Meer. The sole heir to one of the largest fortunes in the country. She’s also one of the youngest Elders in the Exodus now that her parents are out of the way. Though she’s not yet ready to admit she was born one.” He winks. “Judging by your surprise, she failed to indulge such important information. Don’t worry. Many have tried to find her.” Turning, he captures me with his cold gaze. “None have been successful. Until now.”

I hold my breath when he enters my personal space and says loud enough for everyone to hear, “Kill him.” Then he’s gone, and I’m left staring at Keith. When he looks up at me, I want to drown in my own shame. I didn’t lie to him—I just didn’t tell him the truth of who I am, either. I never told a soul. They wouldn’t have looked at me the same if they knew I was an Elder’s daughter. A fugitive on the run from the Exodus.

Lifting my head, I scan the gathered members. Empty eyes peer back at me from behind gold and black masks. Gunshots ring out outside the room, but I barely flinch at the sudden sound. Tonight is the devil’s night. Death and mayhem are his love language.

“Miss van der Meer,” Delacroix warns from somewhere behind me. “Last chance.”

Mr. Vanderbilt is watching me from his spot near the doorway. He’s a round old man with a beer gut and a sweaty, bald head. His beady eyes salivate at the thought of torturing my friend to death. It’s that thought that finally kicks me into action. I won’t get a second chance. Death is the only way out.

“Cecilia,” Keith says, momentarily drawing my attention away from the slit in my dress. “It’s okay.”

Two words of forgiveness. A mercy I don’t deserve.

In a swift move, I pull the sharp knife from the holster and slice his throat. It’s an out-of-body experience. Over in seconds. Blood gushes from the gaping wound.

Lauren is screaming behind me, but I barely hear it above the thumping in my ears. Keith gurgles, a river of crimson pooling around my feet, growing larger by the second. I step back out of instinct.

Keith topples over, and silence falls in the room before Lauren breaks it with another anguished, heart-wrenching sob. My chin wobbles, but I manage to keep the tears at bay, even as the bloodied knife trembles in my hand.

Delacroix’s voice sweeps over my skin like a heated breath. “Now, Carlo. Your turn. Join the Exodus or die?”