Page 2 of Crown of Steel

He unabashedly used the golden crow of his cane to dip in between the sides of Monsieur Z’s cloak, unveiling a thick, hard cock. Wet, the veins a little swollen, quivering and tense, just as his owner.

“Mon frère.” The Elder whispered. It was all he needed for the brother on the flower chair to shuffle forward and open his mouth. Two hands brushed the black, silky garment that covered his hair as the man put his lips around the eager cock. “You give yourself so beautifully, succumb so gracefully. Power and sex. Sexispower in the Alpha Fraternarii.”

“Putain,” Monsieur Z gasped, fisting the glossy material, and a nerve ticked in his jaw.

They all stood there in silence. Even the piano had stopped playing, the musician staring across from them into the void of lace with a rigid spine.

“Because we can be kind,” The Elder continued.

Monsieur Z grunted, his eyes turned into slits while he watched the bobbing mouth as if in a trance. He was already close.

“We can be gentle, if needed. So I want all of you to be good to your new brother.” A cruel smile tipped up the corners of his mouth. “He will embrace his glorious fate soon enough. We will help him adjust and show him home. In the name of loyalty—”

“Loyalty.”

Monsieur Z let out an unhinged groan while his body started convulsing,

“Sacrifice.” They boomed, watching the throat of the volunteer work as he drank him down. “Respect. Traditions.”

Their chant sounded as if their voices were hypnotized, their tones a concert of a monotonous mantra, repeating itself again and again. And all the while the Elder hissed, and cackled, then boomed—

“The future! You are the future! Built from the past, ruling tomorrow’s world. Because we rewrite the future. You are a blessing, my brothers. And blessed you shall be.”

1

RÉGIS

Before

Torment. Its tentacles slither along the length of my body, clutching at my expensive, shimmering, filthy black suit, wrapping itself tightly around my skin. It’s suffocating and nauseating, but it does its job of pulling taut around the scarred parts of my entrails. This torment is the keeper of my over-sensitized mind and the part of me I keep safe—safe—from the prying eyes of this godforsaken world.

Myshame.

Myhurt.

And I won’t share.

Today we celebrate my mother and Jean-Luc Deveraux’s wedding outside on the large patch of grass that’s outstretched behind the castle. Sitting warm and fuzzy under the luxurious heaters, I take in the sight before me.

Monterrey Castle.

One of the most prestigious castles in the South West ofFrance, originally built in the 16th century, with its typical impressive towers and large gardens. We are surrounded by a forest—huge, imposing oak trees and thick, endless shrubs—as if we need to be protected from the rest of the world.

Or perhaps it istheywho need to be protected fromus.

The thought brings a chuckle to my lips, its sound turning a little strained when I catch sight of an annoyed flick of onyx eyes. It’s one of the twins.

Gulping down the last of my good mood, I clear my throat and give Arthur Deveraux a slight nod. For a moment, his gaze lingers, heavy and unblinking, on mine. It’s not the first time he’s watched me like this, with that silent accusation palpable in his onyx glare.

My stomach tightens with something potent. Then, right when I want to look away, he curls his lips—a smirk or a sneer or a combination of the two, I can’t tell. He leans into his twin, and with his eyes still locked on mine, whispers something in Louis’s ear.

Everything, from their thick, dark hair to their tall, well-built bodies covered in expensive, exquisitely fitted clothes, scream perfection.

Scream: “I am rich, you are not.”

Scream: “I am better than you are.”

Scream: “You don’t belong.”

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