Page 3 of Wicked Court

The Sovereign doesn’t give me much time to stew. “Consider this mission your crucible. The Heart’s recovery can redefine our Court’s standing and your places within it, since you’ve all been demoted to a level below even the initiates. Failure is not an option. Defeat means death.”

I meet his statement with silence, since I assume that’s what he expects.

“As punishment for your current blunder, I want you to take our disappointment out on one of your favored brothers.”

I still don’t turn my head, but I swallow against the thickness in my throat.

“Choose, Cavanaugh, which one will suffer for your ineptitude.”

Out of the corner of my eye, the other two Sovereigns stand and come forward. They split off on either side of the first one, pulling the blindfolds from Kaspian, Axe, and Wilder.

Someone from behind yanks me to a stand by hooking under my arms. In a single swipe, they free my bound hands, but instead of coming to blows with the Sovereigns—because they’re right, I failed—I fist them at my sides, clenching and unclenching, bringing blood back to my fingers and keeping my expression stoic.

I have to remain unaffected, even as one initiate steps forward with the Court’s ritual knife, an antique silver blade sharpened by centuries of kills.

He hands it to me hilt first, the small rubies on fire by the surrounding candlelight.

Axe, Kaspian and Wilder remain on their knees. No one moves to help them up or untie them. They could slip out of their bindings and get up themselves. We’re all finely honed weapons, but they don’t.

They’re under orders.

“I’m losing patience, Cavanaugh,” the Sovereign says.

I stare down at the backs of my brother-in-arms’ heads—dark auburn, tarnished brown, ash blonde—none of us can claim a single, pure strand on our scalps.

And I don’t know which one to choose to maim for my sins.

This isn’t supposed to be difficult. I torture and manipulate for fun. I’d braid intestines while my victim was still alive to watch as a hobby if I could.

My throat tightens. I must punish one of them, to prove my unflinching loyalty to the Court.

But I won’t do it without facing them. And they won’t take it without holding my stare the entire fucking time.

Walking a path around them, I meet Kaspian’s slate-blue eyes first, his jaw set. We share a history, have trusted each other with our lives countless times.

Axe kneels silent and steady, granting me his stoic permission with a slight nod. He would endure this trial without complaint.

Wilder’s deceptively large, hazel eyes are defiant, burning with that familiar hunger. Our rivalry runs deep, fueled by the desire to be first at everything. I know he’d relish this chance to prove himself above the others.

It’s Axe’s quiet resignation that decides it.

“Axe,” I say, my voice echoing in the vast chamber.

Axe’s lips curl into a smirk. In a single, lithe jump, he rises, striding to the center of the sanctuary. He allows the initiates to force him into the engraved ceremonial chair with his legs widened to accommodate the back of the chair he leans into. His hands curl around the chair, his muscles undulating between his shoulders. There’s a resignation in his bowed posture that makes my grip tighten around the hilt of the knife, the sharp prongs holding the rubies cutting into my palm.

I lift the ancient blade, its edge glinting in the firelight.

This is my duty. I will not flinch.

Its blade gleams ominously. The first incision has to be precise, a symbol of our fealty to the Court above all else.

As the tip touches Axe’s marred skin, there’s a palpable shift in the room. I press down, carving the first line of the X—next to the other three.

Axe’s body tenses, but he doesn’t flinch as I carve another rune across his shoulder blades. The Sovereigns may not outright confirm their love of the occult, but we do enough to sense their belief in dark magic.

The feel of the knife hitting his bone is unnerving, though the only reaction I give is the regular thump of my heart.

I complete the first line and start the second, my movements steady. Blood beads along the wound, a stark contrast against all the pink scar tissue mottling his back.

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