Sancte Diaboli: Part One (The Elite Kings Club Book 6) Page 5

  Brantley is in full form. Frozen, unmoved, but his eyes remain on mine.

  I smile up at him, flashing my teeth. His jaw tenses. “No. Hungry?”

  “Oh damn! Is that Korean?” Bishop sidesteps past Brantley and enters the kitchen, peeking into the bowls that we’ve dished the food out in. He dips his finger into the sauce of the Japchae and sucks it off his finger while looking up at me. “You make this? I sure as shit know Tillie can’t cook.”

  Tillie shoves him. “I shouldn’t be cooking for all you animals. Or have you forgotten that I’m carrying the first Elite King generation—” She pauses. “What generation will he be?”

  “He?” Nate asks, slipping his arms around her from behind and laying a gentle kiss on the top of her head. “Already guessing, huh?” All their talking dies out as plates and cutlery slam around the kitchen, but my eyes stay on Brantley. He’s wearing black denim—Givenchy—I know this because I know fashion—and a plain black tee with a few tear marks sliced through. Kanye’s line, if I have to guess.

  “Are you going to eat?” I ask in challenge. He doesn’t move, and I take this time to study his features, as if I didn’t already know them by heart. A jaw so sharp you’d think it had been cut with a surgical scalpel, lines so precise that perfection wouldn’t even be an adequate word to describe them. Cheekbones slightly sunken in, just enough to shadow his facial structure in every lighting, and then there are his lips. The way they billow out just a little, with dips and curves in all the places you want them to be. They’re probably a little on the larger side, yet they only complement him. Skin so pale, but with lashes as black as the eyes that hide behind. His hair always looks like he can never be bothered brushing it, a little long on the top, while the sides faded out to a shave. Aside from his appearance, he stands at six-six and could lift a damn car with the muscles that are hidden beneath his clothes. Whoever created Brantley did it with intent. Intention for him to either run Hell or guard it. I haven’t figured out which yet.

  Pushing off the wall, he finally ambles farther into the kitchen, reaching for two plates and spooning a variety of food onto both. I watch as he loads one plate to the brim, but keeps the other more on the smaller portion size. He grabs a couple of bread buns, and then with his eyes back on mine, he nudges his head toward the table in the dining room where everyone is seated. I follow behind him quietly, dropping down onto the seat directly beside him as he places my plate in front of me. The smaller portion. What if I liked to eat? I almost want to take his plate and leave him with mine, but I don’t. Mainly because I can’t blame him. It’s not like we’ve ever eaten a meal together.

  Tillie and Nate’s dining room is something I can appreciate. Pillars are lined in a circle, with the table right in the center. Whoever designed this house should be proud. It’s warm, inviting, while still remaining somewhat classic. Tillie told me how old she was. Do all people this age have this kind of money? Money has never been an issue for Brantley and me either. Not that I don’t have a general concept of it. Or maybe I don’t. I’m not sure. I was given a card and told to use it whenever I wanted to buy things. Brantley had also said there was no limit, and so far, he was right. I busy myself with picking at my food when everyone around the table starts to talk amongst themselves about topics I don’t understand. Every now and then, Tillie fires shots at Brantley, who throws them right back. He’s different with her. I noticed it instantly, how he treats me and even his other friends. My chest tightens and I swipe my palms down my thighs to wipe the sweat off them. What the hell. Something flutters in my stomach and I reach for the glass of juice that’s in front of me, taking a generous sip. I’ve never had to see him with other people who aren’t people who work for us or his father. Everything feels different.

  “You all right?” Bishop asks me, breaking through my ridiculous train of thought. He’s seated directly opposite me and right beside Nate. Bishop’s eyes are the color of moss, with dark rings around the green. He has a similar shaped face to Brantley, only not as masculine. More pretty. Though I’m not sure if I’d call him pretty either. Actually—I shift my focus to Nate, and then to Brantley, and to Bishop again. I met the other guy who was here earlier, too, Eli, I think his name was. He was handsome, too. They all are. Just all a different brand.

  I nod at Bishop when I realize I’ve taken a little too long to answer. “Sure.”

  He tilts his head, and it’s as though no one else is here. Everyone seated around us dissolves into thin air. “When did you figure out you liked Korean food?”

  I pick my fork up again and shuffle it through the sauce and meat. “When I smelled it for the first time.”

  “—which was?” he further asks, and my eyes snap up to meet his.

  Brantley tenses beside me. “Ask the fucking question you want to ask, asshole. Go on.”

  I’m instantly confused. The dynamic of the group is confounding. First, they’re hitting each other and threatening to kill one another, and then the next they’re sitting down to have a meal. But on top of these two factors, there’s something else that is always around them. It’s strong and indestructible.

  Something I can’t quite figure out.

  “Fine, I will.” Bishop smirks before leaning forward and resting his elbows on top of the table. “Did this guy ever let you out of the house?”

  Instant. “No.”

  Bishop’s eyes narrow on Brantley. “I get it. You’re the fucked-up one, but wow.”

  Brantley chuckles, and it’s so unfamiliar that I find myself looking up at him. When I say up, I really mean up. I could fit in the palm of his hand. “You’re one to talk. Chasing Madison through forests with our faces on was any better?”

  “All right.” Nate shakes his head, cutting through the conversation. “No fucking arguing while we eat.”

  Brantley reaches for his glass and brings the rim up to his mouth, swallowing whatever is inside of it. The muscles in his jaw jolt as he tenses. When he places his glass back onto the table, his teeth drag over the swell of his bottom lip before he finally says, “She never saw the outside world because of our world, you feel?”

  When everyone falls silent, I twist my fork on my plate. I’m never one to pass up food, but the tension is bloating the air.

  “Brantley’s right,” I whisper. “It was never a—” I pause, not that I’m struggling to find the right words to say what I want to say, but because I’ve never spoken about my life before to anyone. It was sacred. Brantley never told me that I wasn’t to say anything to anyone; it had always been a decision of mine to not want to talk about him. I never wanted to talk about him in fear that others might say something bad about him. Not that I couldn’t handle it. I’ve been on the receiving end of his mood swings more times than I can count growing up, but that never once stopped me from being protective over him. So maybe that’s why I’m talking now. “It was never a prison environment.”

  “You just weren’t allowed out of the house? Did you go to school?” Bishop asks.

  I bring my eyes to his. “I didn’t, but what I had was three of the best lecturers in the United States of America who would tutor me five days a week. Math, English, and science.” No one is speaking, so I continue. “I didn’t need anything else. I made friends with the maid and the cook, and I was happy with that.” I look back up at Brantley. “Am happy with that.”

  He’s ignoring me. I’m used to it. But his focus is on Bishop.

  Bishop exhales, running his hands through his hair.

  “Okay, look, we get it. You’re on edge, B. But you can’t be lashing out—” Nate is cut off once again by Bishop.

  “—how long have you been talking to her?” Bishop snaps, now at Tillie.

  I’m getting whiplash from all of the directions these arguments are going.

  Tillie crosses her arms in front of herself. “I don’t know what you’re talking about.”

  “Cut the shit, Tills. How long?”

  Tillie flips Bishop off and stan
ds from her chair, grabbing her plate and leaving for the kitchen.

  “Nice, asshole. Throw me in the doghouse.” Nate glares at Bishop before following Tillie into the kitchen.

  Brantley stands, one hand slipping beneath my arm, and I briefly watch as his fingers overlap when they go around my entire limb. “Bishop.”

  Bishop ignores him, his eyes trained on one spot on the table.

  Brantley turns to me. “Go wait outside. I’ll be out in a second.”

  I want to say something to Bishop. He seems broken. Instead, I let my feet take me to the foyer. He’s hurting, and it’s obvious it’s about this Madison girl. I did the Myers-Briggs personality test online once. It said I was an empath. I didn’t know what that was until tonight. Until I was surrounded by a group of people. I felt Bishop’s pain, Tillie’s betrayal, and Nate’s anxiety. When it came to Brantley, though, all I felt was cold.

  We left after that. By we, I mean they didn’t really give me a choice. Not that I would say no. When they directed me toward a matte black Maserati, I knew these boys definitely were not from here because I would have noticed their cars.

  He drove us out onto the highway, and then over the bridge. I should have asked where we were going, but I didn’t. Too lost in my drunken thoughts and too thirsty for more.

  “We going somewhere else?” I asked, and they both looked at each other, then the one driving—the disinterested one’s—eyes came to mine in the rearview mirror.

  “Yeah, the night’s still young, don’t you think?” Whenever either of them spoke, I got the feeling they meant something else. Like their words were only foreshadowing what they were really wanting to say.

  “Sure.” I ran my tongue over my bottom lip. The music was louder, the car moved faster, and before I could even register where we were, I noticed the Hamptons sign.

  Shit. I was told to stay away from this side. But I was also told to stay away from boys, and I never listened to that advice. Clearly, which is why I was in this situation to begin with. We drove through the township, until the angry one raised his phone to his ear, cranking down the music. It was perfect timing really, because I just caught the first thing that whoever it was on the other end said.

  “Brantley, turn around.”

  Saint

  The sky is the color of sadness today. It’s as though someone dipped the tip of a paintbrush into bland gray and took angry strokes through a placid blue.

  I like it.

  Unlocking my phone, I check the forecast quickly after changing into some comfortable clothes, hoping I’ll have time to plant my new desert rose when a text comes through.

  Unknown: Is your name Saint?

  I sit up, confused. I’ve never had a text message before from anyone. Well, unless it’s Brantley who sends some basic line like make sure you lock the gate or one of your tutors is canceling a session—which never happened.

  My fingers fly over the keypad.

  Saint: Yes.

  I toss my phone onto my bed and start French braiding my hair to one side. It’s not long after I tie the end when my phone dings.

  Unknown: Can you keep a secret?

  I feel my brows knot to the middle as I fire off my reply.

  Me: Who is this?

  Now that I’m invested, my phone remains in the palm of my hand as I wait for the reply.

  Unknown: Your new secret. Change your passcode to your phone and don’t tell anyone about this.

  My thumb hovers over the screen for a few seconds as I think over what I just read. When I grasp for every reason as to why this person is texting me, I fall short. I’m not experienced in social situations or dynamics. Maybe it’s Tillie. Maybe this is what girls do and how they text.

  I open my settings and set a new passcode, saving the number as a ?. Grabbing my AirPods, I push them into my ears while I make my way downstairs. I move through the large living room, opening the old wooden doors that open out onto the patio. This house is like a dark maze. It’s shaped like a U and the middle is filled with gardens so rich and vibrant they almost look too wonderful for the house. There’s also a pool in the middle, which never gets used but is always maintained. Behind the pool is a concrete archway that has the letters EKC stamped over top. Moss and ivy claw up the sides of the stone, reaching for everything it can to grow and climb onto. Behind that archway lies the Vitiosis cemetery. I don’t go in there often.

  Scrolling through my phone, I push play on an old classic I’ve been trying to learn. Gardening helps my mind breathe.

  Breathe…

  Past

  “Breathe,” Brantley whispered, closing the door behind him.

  I shook my head. “I don’t know what he wants me to do.”

  Brantley’s dark hair flopped over his forehead, distracting me momentarily. He needed to cut it, I thought to myself. Or maybe he wanted it to look like this. He was thirteen, and I was nine.

  Brantley’s jaw tensed, his fingers diving into his hair as he slid down my bedroom door.

  I took the two steps toward him, kneeling in front of him. “Does he do this to everyone?”

  Brantley shook his head. “No. Not to my brothers.”

  I found it strange, but I didn’t say anything. He brought his eyes up to mine. Dark. His eyes were so dark, a contrast to his pale skin. “He’s going to make you do shit.”

  “What?” I whispered, and even though he didn’t elaborate, I could tell by the tone he used that I wouldn’t like it. Not at all.

  “He’s going to do shit to you that you won’t like. I can’t stop him.” His head hung between his shoulders.

  I reached for him, my skinny fingers wrapping around his already developed arms. Well, unless all boys had some muscles at thirteen. I wouldn’t know. “What do you mean?”

  There was a bang on the door. Brantley shot up to his feet, pushing me behind his body and hiding me behind his tall frame. Turning, he studied my features. “I can’t stop him yet. I’m not strong enough. I promise I will one day, though. I promise he won’t hurt you forever.”

  I could see in his eyes the pain he was trying to hide. Whatever Lucan was about to do to me must be bad.

  I didn’t know what kind of bad.

  “Fuck,” Brantley cursed. “Fuck this.” He squared his shoulders and I watched in fascination as his jaw tightened and his pupils dilated. “He’s not touching you.” His hand was on the back of my neck as he tugged my face up to his. “Look at me, Saint.” I did. I looked at the way his mouth moved, too. I also looked at how his eyes had darkened. How I knew he should scare me, but he didn’t. Not ever did he scare me. “He’s not coming near you. Do you trust me?” He spoke with resolve, like he had absolutely made up his mind.

  “I—” I paused. I didn’t quite understand the word trust, but I felt deep in my gut that if I was in danger, Brantley would more than likely get me out of it. He had always been that way with me. He had always been the silent shadow that guarded me behind the scenes. He never had to be loud about it, because his energy alone was enough to warn anyone.

  I nodded my head. “Yes.”

  “Okay. You’re not going to like this, but the latter would be worse. Do you trust that?”

  I nodded again. There was another bang on the door.

  “Motherfucker, I’m coming!”

  Before I could say another word, Brantley spun around, yanked the door open and stepped into Lucan’s space. “You’re not touching her. Ever.”

  Present

  Sweat swelters over the nape of my neck as images flash behind my eyes.

  “Saint!” Brantley’s voice snaps me out of my daze, and I grip the watering can in my hand.

  “What happened?” I ask, squeezing the metal in my hand and looking from left to right to see who else is out here. My head throbs with pain, and it’s not until everything comes into focus that I realize I’d either fallen or dropped down into the corner of one of the garden beds.

  His jaw clenches, his eyes on mine. His gaze pene
trates me like a lit match would a dark room. “I don’t fucking know. Do you do this often?”

  “Um.” I get to my feet, my knees wobbling like jelly. “Yes. I think. But it’s usually the nightmares.”

  He exhales, grabbing my hands and helping me up. “You’re not going to be here alone without someone from now on. If it’s not me, I’ll leave you at Tillie’s.”

  I begin shaking my head because he doesn’t need to go to such an extreme.

  “You don’t need to do that. I’ll be fine.”

  His eyes close, his nostrils flaring before his eyes are open again. I don’t like when he looks at me this way. It makes my stomach roll and my heart falter. He makes me uncomfortable in a way that has my stomach aching, but his presence also pacifies me. Like a gentle stroke of electricity setting fire to my veins. “Nonnegotiable.” He turns to walk away from me, so I remove my garden gloves, tossing them to the side. “Go get changed.”

  “Why?” I call out, following behind him.

  “Because I’m throwing a fucking party tonight.”

  He had turned the car around after the phone call, and we slowly rolled down a street with lights lining the road. It was clearly private and exclusive. Nothing like where I came from.

  He pulled the car into a long cobblestone driveway until we came to a stop outside of an oversized mansion. I mean, honestly, it was just flaunting how much money the owners clearly had.

  Brantley—now that I knew his name—turned to face me. “Get out.”

  They both climbed out of their seats, and he moved the passenger one for me to slip out. When I heard the music blaring and people in the background, I relaxed a little, figuring they had obviously brought me to another party.

  I straightened my skirt and flipped my hair over my shoulder, gazing up at the house. “Nice house. This yours?”