16. Balancing the Scales

Balancing the Scales

Titus

"Again," I order, jumping up and getting back in a fight-ready crouch.

Ecker is a bit more lumbering as he gets to his feet. It's almost noon on the day of the games and we've been sparring since breakfast.

The Estate's gym is in what used to be a natatorium.

The pool was filled in and replaced with wrestling mats and one boxing ring. The old mosaic tiling can still be seen on the floor in between sections of weights and other workout equipment. Bright sunlight streams in through the weathered glass roof.

"It won't matter how much we practice if it tires me out for tonight." Ecker pushes back his sweaty hair.

Ecker's strong and lean, but barely clearing six feet, he's on the smaller side for an alpha. There's a good chance his opponent tonight will be bigger. And when you're at a size disadvantage, you have to be meticulous in technique.

A better fighter can beat a stronger fighter any day.

"We'll go one more time," I push, and he sighs in agreement.

We're facing off as the double doors swing open and three alphas storm in.

"Cerulean!" They barrel toward us, and the few other people in the gym drop what they're doing to watch.

I'm getting real sick of putting on free shows for these assholes.

They all look ready for a fight. The rage and aggression rolling off them tests my control. The beast in me wants to return the sentiment in spades, but I know we can't afford to get into trouble right before our first Trial.

Flanked by his brothers, the leader in the front growls. I recognize him as the pompous asshole otherwise known as Yves Cyan. "I'll fucking kill you."

I have no idea what their issue is, and a quick glance at Ecker confirms he doesn't either. "You sure about that?" I take a step forward, Ecker moving seamlessly in sync with me. "Because while you were busy counting beans and bleaching your asshole, I was fighting in the darkest, ugliest pits. Places that would have you shitting your pants, pretty boy."

"How dare you speak to me—"

"I'll speak to you however I damn well please. But right now, this conversation is over." I shove him in the chest and cut right through their little pack.

I hear them growl in defense, but I don't look behind me—I know Ecker has my back.

We move quickly through the winding corridors and hallways back to our wing.

Sinclair arrives at the door from a different part of the Estate at the same time as us. Her sweats and shirt are splattered with a rusty color.

My heart rate spikes before my brain processes that it's not blood.

I reach for the door handle before her. "What have you been up to?" I bark.

She looks down at her dirty clothes proudly then answers with a smile, "A little redecorating."1

"Redecorating?" I repeat, realizing it must be paint all over her.

"This redecorating . . . ," Ecker begins suspiciously. "Doesn't have anything to do with the Cyans, does it?"

"Don't worry." Her pleased smile only grows. "I just did what I had to."

She patronizingly claps him on the shoulder then gives me a devious look. The fire behind the icy blue is just as tantalizing as infuriating. "But you know all about that, don't you?"

"Jesus Christ." I grab her arm and throw the door open, yanking her inside with me. "Get yourself cleaned up and get rid of those clothes while we deal with whatever the fuck you got us into."

Bishop looks like shit.

He's been sick since breakfast, puking up any food and suffering stomach pains when there's none left. He must have gotten food poisoning from something, but none of us seemed to get it. Knowing he wasn't going to be in peak shape tonight is one of the reasons I pushed Ecker so hard this morning.

His normally golden undertones are gray in pallor as we wait anxiously in the Great Hall for the emergency disciplinary hearing the Elders called.

I'm not delusional. I know it's about us.

Well, her. But she's one of us now. For better or for worse . . .

And it looks like it's going to get much, much worse.

A chain hangs from the balcony like the one that suspended the dead woman. Instead of a body, thick shackles dangle at the end.

My nerves steady when I see a man next to it running a cat-o'-nine-tails through his fist.

A lashing.

The anxiety of not knowing dissipates, and I steel myself for what's to come.

Two Elders stand in front of the Trial packs like judges ready to hand down a sentence. It's the same two men we've come to know, the Azurite and Cyan.

"Today, someone defaced the Cyan wing," the Azurite begins, and I watch Sinclair.

Her throat bobs on a slow swallow. It's not quite a flinch, but every time the guard lightly slaps the whip against his palm, her jaw pulses.

She never takes her eyes off him, even when the Elder continues to speak. "A crude depiction of a bear with a dead stork caught in its maw was painted on their door. Based on this imagery, we have an idea who is involved, but you can save us all the time and energy an official investigation would take by coming forward now—the honorable thing to do."

Bishop and Ecker both look at Sinclair, who responds with a silent, slight lift of her chin. I sense their conflicted emotions, their alpha instincts grating at the idea of her being punished.

Even I have to admit, the thought of letting her go up there is as uncomfortable and unnatural as turning my skin inside out. But the vindictive, hateful part of me says to turn her over.

I already saved her from one lashing yesterday. Maybe now she'll actually learn. That would be the logical and wise thing to do—especially with the games tonight.

I swallow the knot in my throat and straighten. I clear my throat, and her gaze strikes me like an arrow to the chest.

"I did it." The voice echoes, and I think I'm more surprised than anyone to realize it's mine.

Her delicate gasp at my declaration twists the arrowhead a little deeper. I force my feet to move toward the front. If I spend a second longer looking into those confused, beautiful eyes, I might throw her over my shoulder and not put her down until we're far, far away from this place.

"My omega was publicly and profanely insulted at breakfast. While I acted rashly, I did it for her honor." I speak as I walk.

"Petty quarrels between families will always occur during these tense times when so much is at stake. Being able to work through those incidents diplomatically and independently is part of belonging to the Echelon. But when you desecrated this property, you disrespected the entire Echelon, and for that ten lashes are due."

As the Azurite sentences me, the Cyan Elder's slimy smile tips up under his mask.

"I understand."

Low murmurs whisper at my back as I step up to the dangling shackles. A potent reminder that the goal of this punishment isn't pain. It's humiliation.

I can feel the other packs' eager attention like circling, hungry wolves just waiting for me to weaken enough for them to make their attack.

The hushed whispers continue the entire time my wrists are being secured and the rope is hoisted until I'm balancing on tiptoes with my arms stretched above my head. It's only when the enforcer moves directly behind me, dragging the tails of his whip along the ground, that silence finally falls on the crowd.

I've been participating in illegal alpha fighting rings since before I fully manifested. Even with noble blood, a sixteen-year-old at the start of his transition was no match for a fully matured alpha with a decade more experience. Rarely was there ever silence like this during those fights, but the same kind of moment existed in my head. I'd step into the ring, whether that be a sandpit in a junkyard or a properly caged hexagon, and find acceptance. I'd accept the pain, the fear, and the adrenaline that I knew was coming.

But I'd also accept that it would end. No matter how bad it got or how long it seemed to stretch on, it would always end. And when it did, I would still be there, having survived and endured.

The whip hisses through the air, and before it finds its target, I find my acceptance.

Each lash sends me rocking forward, straining my shoulders. It's this sharp stretch that I try to focus on rather than the fire at my back. The knots and metal beads on the tails strip my skin. The warm blood that trickles down feels cool compared to the raging heat from each strike.

I don't make a sound until the eighth one, when an exhale turns into a rough grumble. Sweat drips into my eyes, and I clench my jaw as hard as I can, determined to take the rest without a sound.

They can have my bloody back, but I won't give the satisfaction of anything else.

When it's done, Ecker and Bishop appear in front of me. Their arrival is the only reason I know it's over. The Elders don't say anything. I just hear the shuffle of their loafers as they exit.

I sway on my tiptoes until the rope is lowered enough for the shackles to be reached. As my feet flatten, one slips on the slick pool of my blood on the marble. My brothers steady me, then catch me when I'm finally released.

Gratefully, people began leaving as soon as the show was over. Without an audience, I allow myself to rely on my brothers on either side of me, my arms draped over their shoulders.

Sinclair is waiting. She is now the only person in the hall other than the guard mopping up my blood.

I don't know what I expected. Maybe some gratitude or even a little inkling of respect. Instead, she's emotionless. It feels like a sucker punch.

I've saved her from two lashings, even taking one myself.

My voice is hoarse and deadpan. I have nothing left. "We're even now."

I'm met with a cold stare and an even colder smile. "Oh, we're not even close, sugar tits."

1. Play "Jagwar" by SHELLS until end of chapter, through all ornamental breaks