Prologue
Seth
Once every Lunar Cycle, a woman must die. It is not written in stone, but has become the way we live–whether or not we want it.
And, God help us, sometimes wewantedit.
The woman underneath Ronan struggled, her screams echoing through the high walls of the library, my sanctum. My alter. Where all the good girls came todie.
When we’d laid out the rules for tonight, I promised not to touch her. The game thrilled me, but after nearly a decade of slaughter, it had lost its luster. Everything wastoopredictable.
We always armed our playthings: gave them maps of the manor, weapons, a backpack with everything they’d need to survive until sunrise. That way they could claim their prize–ten million dollars in cold, hard cash. But, theynevermade it till morning. Not usually, anyway.
About half came close, but it always ended the same.
We’d fuck them so hard that they broke beneath us, and butcher them as if they were never human to begin with. After all, thatwaswhat we were trained to do.
The moonlight dripping through the floor-to-ceiling windows illuminated Ronan’s well-muscled back. His tanned skin is turned silver in the light, leaving the dark tattoos to pop as he arched his back and drew the knife over his head. The blade glints, and the girl–Elizabeth, maybe–screams, begging for mercy as if that was on tonight’s menu.
With one final, desperate cry from the woman, the knife slammed down.
Once.
Twice.
On the third contact, her blood sprayed like paint from an aerosol can, coating my desk and chair. Ronan must’ve hit an artery, but that didn’t stop him, not really. His primal groan fills the air as he yanks the blade down. Bird-like bones snap with his effort as he carves a gaping hole into the maiden’s chest. Once he’s deemed she’s had enough, he stands, accidentally jostling the body as he does. Organs pour onto the ground like leftover spaghetti spilled from a pot, pooling on my floors in a sanguine mess. My nose wrinkled, and without looking, I knew Ronan could feel my disgust.
“What?” he challenged, tipping his deer skull mask back just enough to expose his face. “She told me to rearrange her guts, and Idid.”
His green eyes sparkled with amusement, and while I know that tragic excuse for a joke would have earned a chuckle from Cassian, I’m less than impressed.
A sigh hollows my chest as I slip my own mask, an all black, plague doctor-esque accessory, off my head. The chill of the room met the sweat collecting on my cheeks, and I suppressed a shiver.
“If you want to be so sloppy, you couldat leastfinish the job inyourdomain.” I extend an arm and point a finger out the window.
Just beyond the glass lay a seemingly endless forest. On the outskirts, there was a small, rundown chapel, but our toys never seemed to make it that far, not that they needed to.
“Well, ifyouwanted it neat, you could kill the broads on your own.” He scoffed, running a hand over his face.
I knew he intended to scratch himself, as the masks get rather itchy after a night of play, but all he does is drag her blood across his skin. It’s all I can donotto stare at the ruby streaks.
I glanced back at Elizabeth’s body. The blood pooled below her had traveled up, turning her golden blonde hair into an ugly shade of auburn. The room was silent, except for Ronan’s attempts to catch his breath. He’s a monster with a hard cock, nothing more, nothing less.
My gaze shifts up, and I cross my arms behind my back. “Gather the others and meet me in the dining area. We have much to discuss.”
Ronan tipped his head to the side like a confused puppy. “About what?”
His question is almost laughable, seeing as we have this conversation after every game. My boots click on the polished floors as I step over the cadaver and open the top drawer on my desk.
I flip through the accordion of manila folders, not looking for anyone in particular. My fingers pause somewhere in the middle, and I pluck the file out without a second thought. Dropping it on my desk, I take a deep breath before flipping the folder open.
On the first page is a photo and a name. A wicked smile crosses my face as my finger slips along the glossy material ofthe photograph, tracing our next victim’s features as if this is my only chance to memorize them.
“Lux Rhodes.”
Chapter 1
Lux
