His jaw clenches, but he doesn’t say anything. He must know that saying anything at this point will push me over the absolute edge. “Ready?” he asks.

“Yeah,” I push out with a sigh. “Let’s get this shit over with.”

CHAPTER EIGHTEEN

Lucas

As Wyn walks aheadof me to get into my car, I wonder what the fuck I was thinking volunteering to be her watchdog. Ten minutes into this, she steps out of the shower, her skin glistening, and I was ready to rip that towel off and fuck her against the kitchen counter.

Then she had the nerve to come out wearing that short-as-fuck sundress. When she turned around, I could see the underside of her ass. Not to mention the miles andmilesof shapely legs that have been wrapped around my waist a thousand times in my imagination.

She’s like Medusa with all that supple, dewy skin. One glimpse instantly turns my cock to stone. And if the sight of her barely clothed body has that effect on me, then other guys will react in kind. They may even try to make a move. And I’m really not in the mood to kill people today.

The dress she’s wearing now isn’t much better. Her legs and ass are covered, but those pretty little tits are boppin’ around like molds of gelatin. I can’t fucking win. She’ll be wearing fivepounds of fabric soon anyway, so whatever. Robes are required for every official Burning Crown event.

I drive us both in my car and when we get to Rush House, it’s already packed with members. Wyn walks in front of me, and I watch that ass sway as we make our way to the study, then to the dressing room. I grab my robe and carry it out to the study, where the rest of the Sacred Sons are hanging out, waiting to begin the procession down to the beach.

Slipping into my robe, I address the guys. “Has Dorian arrived yet?”

Christian is on the sofa, some random Deb straddling him, her hands buried deep in his robes, doing God knows what. “Yeah, a couple of the senior members already took him down to the beach.”

“Cool,” I say, securing my hood. “And one of you got the word out that no one should be on the beach past nightfall?”

Initiation rituals are technically against university policy. Scratch that, initiations areabsolutelyagainst policy. But we’re in a “don’t ask, don’t tell” arrangement with the administration. So when we say “Stay off the beach” everyone not associated with the Burning Crown knows what that means.

“This isn’t our first fucking rodeo,” Jackson says, annoyed.

“Whatever, dude,” I reply. “It’smyfirst damn rodeo as the leader of you damn fools.”

“Leader?” Christian scoffs. “What, are we a fucking cult now?”

Some might argue that, actually.

Wyn is done putting her robe on and walks out of the dressing room with Alexis. Wyn is swimming in dark wool, the deep hood pulled over her long, wavy hair. Thank God. That lithe body is finally covered up. I wonder if I can convince her to wear that robe all the time.

My eyes follow her as she leaves the room with Alexis. She never looks up at me, never acknowledges me, and for some reason, that pisses me off. This is all a fucking game with her. Ignoring me. Pretending like I don’t affect her. It only makes me want to prove her wrong in a dozen delicious ways.

“Alright,” I say, already wanting this night over with. “Let’s do this thing.”

When the Sacred Sons leave, everyone follows us like a procession through the house, down the porch steps, around the front lawn to the sandy path that leads down to the private beach below Rush House.

The bonfire is already lit, the flames dancing, reaching for the neon moon that’s hanging low in the night sky. Dorian is already standing with his back to the ocean, hands clasped in front of him, covering his dick and balls. We all file in around him, creating a half-circle, the fire in the center. I catch sight of Wyn as she settles into place, but her eyes are still averted like she’s deliberately looking anywhere but at me.

Once we’ve all taken our places, I step forward and start speaking in the twisted tongue of our forefathers. The words are Latin and I memorized them a long time ago. I’ve attended a shit ton of these rituals, even as a kid.

Keeping with tradition, I drone on about why we’re here, and what the commitments of a Burning Crown member are. They’re old words, written by men over a hundred years ago, but they still ring true. “We come together as a family—to protect, to honor, to serve without question or hesitation.”

Waves pummel the sand just a few feet in front of us, and a sharp wind whips around us. The palm trees sway overhead, and the fire swells. I hold my hand out in a silent request for the brand, which has been buried in the hot embers since before the ritual started. Lindsay places the iron rod in my hand, and Iapproach Dorian. “Turn toward our mother ocean and bow your head in humility.”

Dorian follows my command, the muscles in his back tense as he lowers his head and constricts his muscles, so he’s not shivering. None of the guys want to be seen shivering, but it’s so cold out here that it’s unavoidable.

I recite the words that welcome him into our fold as I bring the brand down and press it into his back, on the right side. His flesh sizzles, and he tucks his head tighter against his chest, fists clenching, muscles flexing, biting back a scream.

It’s fucking brutal, and for the millionth time, I thank the stars that the Sacred Sons aren’t branded when we’re initiated. When I asked my grandfather about that years ago, he simply said, “The Burning Crown is already branded in our blood.”

Really, I think our forefathers just didn’t want to do it. They felt like they were above having their sacred bodies marked. That’s for the lower echelons. For the sheep, not for the shepherds.

Turning back to Dorian, I recite the closing words of the ritual, and that’s the queue for a couple of members to haul Dorian up, and walk him out, into the water. About twenty feet out, there’s a giant rock, and drilled into it is a solid metal ring that male initiates are chained to overnight. If he’s alive in the morning, then he’ll emerge from the ocean as a member of our twisted, toxic family.