Page 44 of Pink Ink

I tug off my mask and cloak to hang in the wardrobe. Looks like Spencer has already rushed here to drop his things. Roland hands me his own, and because I’m still his bitch, I put it away too, making sure it’ll get nice and wrinkled in there.

“Listen here,” he starts.

It takes far more effort than it should not to walk straight out the door. Slowly, I turn around, attempting to keep my posture relaxed and face expressionless while he looks down his nose at me.

“You are going to prove your worth and do everything in your power to ensure wekeepour seat and get rid of Daniel.”

I snort. I’m not much of a tattletale, but sometimes one must adapt. “Absolutely. I’ll put in the request to the grand magistrate.” We can’t very well go around killing each other unchecked. Murder is fine as long as it’s not upon another acolyte—unless our leader grants us permission, that is.

To be an acolyte is to be protected. Killing one without approval? I’d love for Roland to find out the repercussions of such a decision. In fact, I’d volunteer to liberate his soul from his body.

He stiffens—a reaction I appreciate greatly. “He is a threat to the Order.”

“I’ll put that in the request.”

The corner of his lips twitch. The signet ring on his pinky glints against the golden light. I still have its mark permanently indented into the outside of my knee from when he took a swipe at me for stumbling over his shoes.

“I didn’t raise you to be disrespectful to your superiors,” he snaps.

“You didn’t raise me.”You did, however, beat me to the point where I didn’t dare speak to or look at you anymore. Pre-Shepherd days, of course. It wasn’t until Spencer came along that I grew a backbone and turned my silence into rage, then made it into art.

“No? Who paid for you to get where you are?” he asks, English accent thick as he pours himself two fingers of scotch.

“As a businessman, I expect you to know the difference between raising and funding.”

The only show of Roland’s rising anger is the twitch of his hand before he sips the amber liquid. Shepherd and Roland are alike in that sense, but my sperm donor has always been more liberal with his words.

“Enough of the attitude. You like to think you’re so tough just because you know how to use a knife. Need I remind you of the commitments you have been woefully neglecting? Perhaps it’s time I consider how to fully integrate your brother into the Order.”

A kill.

The Order recruits Cresswell students and tests their loyalty in different ways. Most of them trade secrets or favors; but a select few earn their place through blood—so far I’ve spared Spencer from being one of them.

“You’ll have to be more specific of what those are. I’m a man of many talents,” I say, attempting to appear casual while I’m grinding my molars.

“Let me spell it out for you. People have noticed your absence at home and by your future wife’s side. They are beginning to see the farce behind our alliance with the Dornmonts. Your lack of enthusiasm is costing me my campaign. It’s because ofyouthat we’re losing voters’ confidence,” he spits out.

It’s on the tip of my tongue to wish him all the best with the campaign because I’m calling off the wedding—but I know better.

“Should I lose this election because you failed to play your part, I will ensure that everything you’ve ever loved withers away until all that’s left is for you to fall to your knees and beg me to end the pitiful remnants of your life. Do I make myself clear?”

“Crystal,” I say through clenched teeth.

He gives me one final look of disdain before dismissing me with his departing words. “Learn your place or be put in it.”

MADDOX

I don’t like interacting with people on the best of days. On the worst of days, taking a cyanide pill would be more pleasurable.

Which is why, as I usually do, I start a one-hour timer for themix and minglethat follows each monthly Order assembly.

Any less, and I’ll be in trouble. Any more, and someone would end up dying.

The room is buzzing with medici, high saints, and any lower-ranked members who are considered the elite in the big world: tech moguls, CEOs, judges, politicians, multibillionaires.

It doesn’t matter who I speak to, they don’t look all too impressed with talking to me either. They don’t know me as the man Shepherd calls if he wants someone moved out of the way. All they see is the washed-up son of a high saint. A talentless hack.

Four years ago these people were begging to get a piece from me to hang up in their office. Now they wouldn’t take it even if I were giving it to them for free.