Page 13 of Priest and his Anarchist

“He’s going to kill her.”

Marbled veins fracture obsidian walls before meeting a floor that's the shade of bone. The house is a human. I’m sure of it.

Gray sofas fill the open space, and a large window flaunts darkness where the sun had not long set. LED lights scatter across the outdoor entertainment area like a runway, highlighting the infinity pool which seems to plunge off a cliff.

The door closes behind me before heavy footsteps stomp past, his shoulder brushing mine on his way into the living room. My throat dries. I’m way out of my element here. The only question is, should I be hiding it further?

Flickering auburn flames dance against the enormous fireplace as he ducks behind cabinetry adorned with alcohol bottles. In the shadowy lighting, trying to make out the profile of his face is difficult, but I can’t scratch the itch of wondering if I know this person. I have to. Bishop and Nate wouldn’t leave me with anyone that isn’t a King, skull face aside. I have to know him. I am unfamiliar with every EKC member, but I am with most of the ten founding families.

There aren’t enough decorations to distract me from my running thoughts. No photos or artwork. A simple, ornate railing traces the house's structure from upstairs, shadowing down on us below in a loft setting. Gothic elegance is enhanced by cathedral-style windows above the doorway and the chandelier’s raining onyx crystals. A subtle reminder that I may be in a situation that I am unsure about, but I am still in King territory. Only they can make opulence feel like a death sentence.

Stepping into the depths of hell, I pause as the air thickens in the room. A frigid feeling washes over my face like frostburn.

There is another one here. Hidden in the room's darkest corner, he swallows all light surrounding him. Relaxed in a wingback sofa with his legs spread wide, the tip of his boot shifts when he moves a little. My heart slows. The fact that I don’t know the one who met me outside doesn’t matter anymore.

I know for sure who this one is.

As if moving in slow motion, his hands peak through the shadows when he leans forward, resting his arms on his thighs. A hoodie veils his face, but my legs turn to jelly when he lifts his head. I reach for the sofa to stop my fall because, unlike the first boy, this one isn’t hiding who he is behind the skull paint. He bares his identity like a threat, one that I know he can live up to.

Priest Hayes is the embodiment of terror. He has never interacted much with me over the years, but in what momentshe did, he made sure I knew he hated me. Some more obvious than others, like earlier today or yesterday—shit. I’ve already lost track of time—when he tried to kill me.

He is unreadable, unlike most. A perfectly stiff corpse that never experienced life with a soul.

Honestly, he wants to kill everyone. And I mean everyone.

“Well.” The corner of his mouth curls slightly. “Don’t you look like pure madness.”

I swallow the lump in my throat. Why am I with him, and who—I spin around to catch the man who met me outside. He rounds the sofa, making his way to the one nearest to the window.

“Which one are you?”

He lowers his glass to his thigh. “The nice one. You’re lucky that you don’t exist during a time when my ancestors did.”

Priest snickers, pushing up from the shadows and rising to his full height. It makes sense now, what River said about him killing me. Crap.

He has never liked me and always kept his distance. So for Bishop to drop me here on his doorstep?—

“Sit.” Priest gestures to the sofa opposite him with his free hand but doesn’t look at me until his glass is refilled and he’s back in his spot. “You’re going to want to sit, Luna.”

The rubber soles of my Docs squeak as I follow his instruction, lowering down to mahogany leather.

My hand finds my necklace as if it’s a lifeline. “I don’t know why I’m here.” In a pool of colorless fluff, the rug at my feet blurs together. Untied black boots come into view, and I make my way up his body. Past denim jeans and the relaxed way they sit on his hips, over the rugged bulk of his muscles and how they fill the hoodie he’s wearing, and finally ending at his face, where eyes the color of ink glare down at me. I’d once heard his mom say he has green eyes, but I’ve only ever seen them like this.

Dark.

He hands me a teacup, tilting it forward to show brassy liquid swirling inside. “Drink.”

“I don’t like alcohol.” The elegant design of the teacup distracts me for a moment.

He doesn’t retreat. “I’d be worried if you did. Since you’re what, ten?”

“Almost thirteen,” I grumble, accepting his offer. Electricity crackles between us when his fingers graze mine. I glance up to see if he noticed. Nothing. A masterpiece sculpted by the hands of lords, only left hollow. Empty. Detached.

I balance the cup in my lap as he returns to his chair. Lifting it to my nose, the bitter notes of spice marinade with vanilla and aged wood. Whiskey. At least it’s in a teacup. “Well. This is not pleasant.”

“Drink, Madness….”

Second time he’s called me that. “Madness?”

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