Page 70 of Marrying My Professor

He pauses, his hand coming up to rub the back of his neck.

"If James substituted Brandon for Amelia without telling anyone—if he killed your brother and made it look like the sanctioned sacrifice⁠—"

"He murdered my brother and made it look like it was approved by the Order," I finish, the pieces clicking into place with horrible clarity. "He killed Brandon and everyone just assumed it was the planned sacrifice."

"Yes."

The word lands heavy between us.

I sink to the floor, my legs suddenly unable to support my weight, surrounded by scattered papers that document my brother's last weeks, his last hopes, his last desperate grasp at a future that was stolen from him.

"Why would they do this?" I ask, and my voice sounds small even to my own ears, young and lost. "Why have a sacrifice at all? What possible purpose could ritual murder serve?"

Alexander's face hardens, his expression going cold in a way I've only seen a few times before—when he's talking about the Veritas, when he's explaining the mechanisms of the organization that owns him.

He crosses the room and sinks down beside me on the floor, his back against the filing cabinet, close enough that our shoulders almost touch.

"Tradition," he says, and there's bitter contempt in the word. "Every initiate class bonds over a shared murder. Makes them accomplices. Makes them complicit in a crime that could destroy their entire future if it ever came to light."

"But—"

"It's insurance," he continues, cutting off my protest before it can fully form. "If anyone tries to leave, tries to expose the Order, tries to go to the police or the press or anyone outside the organization, they're admitting to being accessories to homicide. They're confessing to a crime that would put them in prison for life. So they stay quiet. They stay loyal. Because the alternative is losing everything."

The calculation of it makes bile rise in my throat. The cold, brutal logic of using murder to create loyalty, of making initiates into criminals so they can never escape.

"That's—" I can't even find words for how grotesque it is. "That's evil."

"Yes."

Just that. Just agreement, flat and unemotional, like we're not discussing a particularly effective but morally reprehensible business strategy.

"And you've been part of this organization," I say, turning to look at him, needing to see his face when he answers this. "You've known about this tradition, about these murders, about the way they trap people. And you've just—what? Gone along with it?"

Pain flashes across his face, raw and immediate, before he schools his expression back to neutrality. But I saw it. That moment of genuine anguish.

"I had a choice," he says quietly. "Join the Ashen Serpents or die. And once you're in, once you know the secrets, you can't leave without⁠—"

"Without being killed yourself," I finish the sentence, some of the anger draining out of me as I remember his story, as I process what forced conscription really means. "I'm sorry. That wasn't fair."

"It's a fair question." He turns to face me fully, his eyes finding mine with uncomfortable honesty. "And yes, I've been complicit. I've attended meetings where they discussed these traditions like they were normal. Like ritual murder was just another item on the agenda. I've watched them plan trials that get people killed. I've stood by and done nothing because doing something would have gotten me killed too."

His hand finds mine on the carpet between us, fingers intertwining with deliberate gentleness.

"But Elara, I need you to understand—I hate it. I hate them. I hate what they are, what they do, what they've made me pretend to be. I hate it so much that some days I can barely breathe, can barely function, can barely remember who I used to be before they turned me into this."

The rawness in his voice steals my breath, makes my chest tight with sympathy I'm not sure I should be feeling when I'm still so angry.

"But until you walked into my life," he continues, his thumb brushing across my knuckles, "I didn't have anything worth risking everything for. I was just surviving. Counting days. Waiting for an end that kept getting further and further away every time they extended my sentence. I'd given up on being free. On being happy. On being anything other than a weapon they could point at whatever target they chose."

I look at him—really look at him. At the exhaustion carved into the lines around his eyes, the tension he carries in his shoulders, the weight of fourteen years of captivity that I'm only now beginning to comprehend.

"The Veritas is investigating James," he says quietly, his eyes still on our joined hands. "Nathaniel suspects he went rogue with the sacrifice. That he killed Brandon instead of Amelia without authorization. But it'll take time to build a case against him. Months, maybe longer. The Order doesn't move quickly, especially when it comes to disciplining one of their own."

"How long?" I ask.

"I don't know. Six months? A year? James is well-protected. His family has money, influence, connections that go back generations. And he's the leader of the Sovereign Bastards, which means he has an entire faction behind him. Taking him down would require undeniable proof, multiple witnesses, and probably a vote by the full council."

"I can't wait months." The words come out fierce, final, edged with a determination that surprises even me. "He killed Brandon. He promised him money and answers and a future, and then he murdered him. I can't just—I won't just let him walk around free while some committee decides whether to hold him accountable."