14. Punishment and Respect

Punishment and Respect

Ecker

The Great Hall seems smaller somehow without all the candles and silk nests. Don't get me wrong, it's a big ass room, but it doesn't feel as intimidating as it did during the ceremony.

It could also have to do with the empty balcony. Creepy motherfuckers in masks and cloaks staring down on you is universally intimidating.

Though, I prefer Sinclair's ceremony dress to the pilgrim shit she's wearing now. As more people filter into the room, I nudge Bishop next to me. "When did girls start wearing dresses above their knees?" He gives me a side look and I clarify, "Historically."

"I don't know, the sixties maybe."

"Hmm . . ." I cock my head to the side and take her in, a few feet away with her signature scowl and crossed-arm stance. Just out of earshot if we're quiet enough. "The nineteen-sixties really?" That seems way too modern for her frock.

His jaw loosens as he looks at her. "Why?"

"Doesn't she kind of look like a pilgrim?" I sense him tense immediately at my question.

His head whips back to me, and he growls quietly but deeply, "No."

I watch him try to take a calming breath, but it doesn't relax any of the tension in his shoulders and neck.

"Why do you even care? It's still short enough for you to finger bang her at the breakfast table," he snarls loud enough that Sinclair looks at us suspiciously.

I hear Titus's husky voice as he joins us, coming to stand to my other side. "She's our omega, Bish. Don't think I didn't notice that you spent the entire drive back yesterday wanting to kill me. You're gonna have to get over this jealousy bullshit because I'm not letting anyone—especially her—get between us."

Bishop nods then clears his throat, looking down at his feet. He cuts us a look from the corner of his eyes and his lip tugs in a half-smile. "I guess the neckline is a little high."

I bark a laugh. The sound booms in the room of hushed voices. Multiple heads swivel toward me, clearing a view to the front of the room. Right where the prisoner stood before the ceremony is an Elder in a stork mask, one of the men who took us to Baby Doll's.

"Ah." His mouth curls deviously under the pointy, gold beak. "Mr. Cerulean. I guess this must all be very exciting for you, hmm? Did you ever think you'd make it this far?" His voice drops to a cold, amused tone. "Especially with that bastard omega."

Acid builds in my throat and my teeth grind together as mocking laughter fills the cavernous room. Anger and embarrassment send energy rushing to my muscles.

When will it be enough? When will we be enough?

I don't even realize I've taken a step forward until Bishop's hand clamps around my forearm. His silent message pulls me back to reality just as my vision was turning red. I exhale gruffly to the lingering snickers.

"At least I'm not inbred like you fucks!" I'd know it's Sinclair by her defiant roar, even if she was shouting about cupcakes and rainbows.

An unsettling quiet follows, and I can hear her ragged, seething breaths.

"Such profane insolence is unacceptable, Omega Cerulean." The Elder glides eerily across the marble floor toward our pack, the others stepping instinctively out of his way.

Just as instinctively, my brothers and I move in front of Sinclair. If we paused to think about it, we probably wouldn't. But just as something inside her rebels against every-damn-thing, something inside us propels us to protect her. I know it's our alpha nature, but whatever her issues are, it sure as shit isn't her omega nature.

Omegas are biologically programmed to submit, present, fuck, knot—or be fucked and get knotted. Especially right after manifesting, she should be just as primed for submission as she is for arousal. But instead, it seems the stronger her nature tries to manifest, the stronger she fights it.

The stork-faced fucker stops in front of us. His eyes are black and hard. "Lashings are in order." All three of us growl in response. "But seeing as you are new to the way we do things, I will offer this one-time concession. Punish her here and now and we'll call the lesson learned."

"Punish her?" Titus's voice is tight but grisly. I know him well enough to recognize the torn quality of his voice as bloodthirst. But for the Elder or Sinclair, I don't know.

"If you don't, I will." A black stick slips from his jacket sleeve into his palm. With a flick of his wrist, it expands into a baton.

Bishop shakes with rage next to me as Titus grows, still as stone. I feel the weight of everyone's enthralled eyes on us. We're at the center of a circle of sick curiosity. Dread of the inevitable sinks in.

But do I dread her pain or my own embarrassment?

What happens to one of us, happens to all of us, and few things are as humiliating as public punishment.

"She's our omega. She's ours to discipline," Titus says with finality.

The Elder steps back but does not retract his baton. "Very well."

As we turn to face her, Sinclair bravely lifts her chin. The gnarled scar seems to rise as she stretches her neck as if to remind us she's survived worse.

She's survived worse. Worse than us.

It's a paltry comfort. Being the lesser of two evils.

"You will remember your place, Omega," Titus states flatly. "You will show respect for your alphas, your Elders, and the Echelon." His voice lacks conviction, his words slow and drawn out. If I didn't know better, I'd think he's stalling. But Titus never avoids what is necessary, no matter the discomfort. And fucking hell is this uncomfortable.

Sinclair drags her lip through her teeth as if physically refraining from talking back. Her eyes quickly flick to the floor, and I half expect her to spit at his feet.

Her gaze raises with calloused resolve, shuttered but no less present. She'll take whatever is coming, but not because she's submitting. She's enduring.

"Yes, Alpha," is all she says. Innately, I know—we all do—that there's no point waiting for anything else. There will be no apology or begging for mercy.

The slap comes swiftly and without hesitation. The crack reverberates through the room like an echo chamber. A communal gasp follows as if pulled from their chests by the force of his blow.

She lands on the floor, catching herself with her hands, her legs crumbled under her. Now, I'm the one to hold Bishop back. His chest rises and falls under my palm, his heart pounding.

Her head hangs. A vivid red blooms across her cheek, bruised streaks in the shape of Titus's fingers already forming.

Something scratches inside my chest the longer she's on the ground. Years of conditioning grate my psyche, and I can't help but order, "Get up."

Don't stay down. Don't let them see you fall. Rise. Stand. Keep fighting.

The uncomfortable itch and constricting tightness don't abate until she pushes to her feet. Even with her eyes menacingly locking with mine like she wants to gut me alive, I feel relief.

And pride.

That's our omega.

"You've been gifted an omega and have formed a noble pack. You will stand with this pack and together either rise to success or crumble into failure." The Elder speaks like a professor, delivering profound information while at the same time making it sound routine. I was never enrolled in university, but I would sneak into lectures so I could keep up with my rich, educated clientele. The packs even arrange themselves in staggered semi circles before him like a lecture hall.

The only difference is we are all standing, and speaking out won't you get you kicked out of class, but corporally punished.

"The Trials are not isolated events. They began the moment you all stepped into this hall two nights ago for the gifting ceremony and will continue over the next four weeks. You will be tried against the five integral values of nobility: vigilance, intelligence, courage, fortitude, and loyalty.

"Some of these Trials will be announced and you will know what you are walking into. Other times, you will be tested without warning. Everything that occurs from this point forward could be a Trial."

One of the alphas in front of me whispers conspicuously to his brother and scoffs, "Like we won't know."

The Elder's eyes slice to them and his lip tugs in a sneer. "Do not make the mistake of thinking you know what to expect." The two guys snap to attention. "Every generation is tested on the same values, but through different means. Any stories your fathers or uncles may have shared with you about their Trials are completely irrelevant. There is only one Trial that has remained the same throughout all the years."

Titus glances at Bishop and me, and we offer discrete nods. This is the only Trial we know about. The only Trial that is talked about outside of noble circles. It's whispered in the dark underground and criminal underbelly of Cape Aurelia. It is used as a threat to elicit obedience in syndicates and trafficking rings.

It is the modern equivalent of gladiatorial games.

The Elder clasps his hands together. "And tomorrow, you will face it."