Page 54 of Priest and his Anarchist

“Leaving so soon?”

My stomach dips, causing my finger to pause over the screen. He's close. Enough to feel the brush of his words at the nape of my neck. Too close. Too much too soon.

“Parties aren’t my scene.”

Panic crawls down my spine. Priest never attacks when your back is turned. He likes to breathe in your last breath and watch as the life drains from your eyes so the last thing you see is him.

Combat boots come into my peripheral when he steps down, subsiding some of my fear. When I lift my head, I’m reminded of everything he is. The hatred, torment, and pain. The way I’ve only ever seen him smile once, showcasing the two dimples oneither cheek. It was at the exact moment when he thought I was about to die.

He lowers to the spot below me, resting against the railing. “That hasn’t changed then.”

“It won’t.” Like a firestorm through a forest, he leaves his destruction behind everything he touches. “What about you?”

“What about me?” It’s harder to breathe when he looks at me this way. “What, Madness?” he repeats with his mouth in a flat line.

“Are you the same?” I roll my eyes. “Locking me away in your bedroom aside.”

Heavy silence weighs us both down. He won’t answer.

His eyes shift from me and out to the front, in time for headlights to illuminate features so sharp there’s no mistaking they’d been carved by the demons he hides. “Always.”

I push up from the steps when the car rounds the concrete fountain, brushing off the dirt from my butt. Reaching for the door handle, I turn to look over my shoulder, catching Priest glaring into the driver’s seat.

“Tell the girls I got a ride.” My poor attempt at trying to interrupt his gawking fails.

“To where?” He has a lockjaw with what he wants, and right now, he wants to know who’s driving this car.

“Home.” I slide into the back seat and shut the door. Closing my eyes, I count to five. It doesn’t matter if he did see who was driving. What was he going to say?

The separator lowers, and friendly eyes meet mine. “They await you.”

My blood warms as I relax into the leather. “Thank you.”

Chapter Fourteen

luna

some girls crave love from a monster, if only to feel worthy of their wrath.

Built out of a dream, it towers up to the clouds with pointed elegance. I haven’t been here since I was a child, yet nothing has changed. Manicured gardens fit for royalty and grandeur to match the title, it would take someone a second to know who owns it.

Heavy doors swing open as a young girl pauses in her step when her eyes land on me. Honey-blonde hair is pulled up in a high pony, emphasizing her flawless dark skin and makeup applied by someone who clearly knows what they're doing. Dressed edgy in loose-style jeans with pockets, a tight cami, and Jordans, she seems relaxed enough to know her way around.

She tilts her head, her eyes flying to the car I climbed out of. “You here to see Halen?”

“She’s here to see Madison.” Bishop widens the door behind her.

“Okay….” She shrugs, flashing a smile and jogging down the stairs while humming a tune. You don’t want to keep Bishop Vincent Hayes waiting, so I continue through the front door. In an array of regal opulence, the castle is timeless in its elegance. With brushed gold and black color palettes, ceilings that spiral up to the sky, and contemporary medieval architecture, it’s a testament to how far up in the food chain the Kings are. There’s rich, there’srichrich, and then there’s this kind of rich. The simplicity of a four-letter word seems inadequate.

“Come. This won’t take long.” I follow him down the long hallway, passing stone walls and plain abstract art. He stops outside twin doors and gestures inside with a single swoop of his hand. Heat sails over my skin from the open fireplace, where four wingback sofas surround a walnut-stained coffee table. Bookshelves that reach the ceiling compliment the garland of opulent furnishings. It’s like stepping into the mind of Bishop Vincent Hayes.

“This seat is for you.” Bishop gestures down to the only empty chair near the fire, driving me to the other two that are filled.

Out of instinct, I find Nate. Seconds pass until he nods, and my feet move, shuffling me to the only empty chair. A decanter of whiskey is on the small table between us, surrounded by small glasses and a bucket of ice. An ashtray with burn marks is placed beside it, and a leftover cigarette burning in the middle.

Nate clears his throat. I cross my legs at my ankles, keeping my shoulders straight. “Guess you’re wondering why you’re here.”

“You could say that,” I answer like a well-trained pet. Shadows dance over my vision, and I find myself lost in the grand portrait hanging on the wall. A steel feathered swan with its wings spread over the dimension of Bishop's desk.

---