SAVAGE RITES
The venue for the Initiation was not a frat house. It was the Founders’ Hall, a massive limestone building that looked like a courthouse mixed with a cathedral.
Tonight, it was lit up with violet floodlights. A red carpet stretched up the wide stone stairs.
The SUV stopped. The door opened. The noise hit me first.
It wasn’t just music. It was a roar of voices, laughter, and the bass of a sound system that shook the pavement.
Nico got out first. He buttoned his tuxedo jacket. He looked indifferent to the flashing lights of the student press and the gawkers lining the ropes. He turned and held out his hand to me.
I stared at his hand. It was the hand that had beaten a boy bloody this morning. It was the hand that had caressed my face.
I took it.
He pulled me out of the car.
The moment my red dress hit the light, the crowd went quiet. Then, the whispers started. They rose like a wave.
“That’s her.”
“The niece.”
“Look at the dress. Who does she think she is?”
“She looks like a whore.”
I stumbled. My heel caught on the plush carpet.
Nico’s grip on my hand tightened. He didn’t let me fall, but he didn’t slow down.
“Chin up,” he commanded, his voice low and sharp. “You are with me. You do not stumble.”
We walked up the stairs.
Inside, the hall was transformed. The high ceilings were draped in black silk. chandeliers the size of small cars hung overhead, dripping with crystals. The room was packed with hundreds of people.
And everyone, absolutely everyone was wearing black, white, or silver.
Except me.
In my blood-red gown, I stood out like a fresh wound.
Nico guided me through the crowd. He didn’t ask people to move. He didn’t have to. As soon as they saw him, the sea of students parted. They looked at him with awe and fear.
Then they looked at me. Their expressions changed. Disgust. Judgment.
“Is that the professor’s niece?” a girl in a silver dress whispered loudly. “I heard she planted the documents herself.”
“Cold,” her boyfriend replied, swirling his champagne. “Ice cold.”
I felt the tears pricking my eyes. Don’t cry, I told myself. Remember the fingers. Don’t cry.
We reached the center of the room. There was a raised VIP area, cordoned off with velvet ropes. Matteo and Dante were already there, holding court on a plush leather sofa.
Matteo saw us. He whistled.
“Lady in Red,” Matteo grinned, raising a glass of bourbon. “Subtle, Nico. Very subtle.”
“I don’t do subtle,” Nico said.
He led me into the VIP section. He didn’t let go of my hand. He pulled me down onto the sofa next to him. He sat close, his thigh pressing against mine, his arm draping over the back of the seat behind my head.
Waiters circulated with trays of champagne. Nico took two glasses. He put one in my hand.
“Drink,” he said.
I took a sip. I scanned the room, desperate to look at anything other than the hundreds of eyes staring at me.
Then, I saw him.
Across the room, standing near a towering ice sculpture, was Julian.
He looked like a prince from a storybook. He was wearing a white tuxedo jacket that made him glow under the lights. His golden hair was perfectly styled.
He wasn’t looking at the girls fawning over him. He was looking straight at the VIP section. Straight at me.
His face fell when he saw the ruby necklace. He saw the red dress. He saw Nico’s arm around me.
He looked sad. He looked… disappointed.
I wanted to scream. I wanted to run to him and tell him I didn’t choose this.
Julian took a step forward. He started to weave through the crowd, coming toward us.
Nico felt my body tense. He followed my gaze.
He saw Julian coming.
Nico didn’t look angry. He looked bored. He leaned forward and grabbed a bottle of expensive vodka from the table.
“Matteo,” Nico said.
“Yeah, boss?”
“We need a toast.”
Nico stood up. The music didn’t stop, but the energy in the room shifted. Everyone was watching the King of Blackwood.
Julian was twenty feet away. He stopped. He couldn’t get past the wall of people turning to watch Nico.
Nico raised his glass. He didn’t use a microphone, but his baritone voice carried over the bass.
“To the Class of 2025,” Nico said.
The crowd cheered. “To the Class!”
Nico looked down at me. He smiled. It was a shark’s smile.
“And,” Nico continued, silencing the room, “to loyalty.”
The room went deadly quiet. Everyone knew what happened this morning.
“Loyalty is rare,” Nico said, his eyes drilling into mine. “It is the currency of our world. And when we find someone who knows the true value of sacrifice…”
He reached down. He took my hand and pulled me to my feet.
I stood next to him, shaking in my red dress.
“Elena here,” Nico announced to the room, “taught us all a lesson today. She showed us that blood doesn’t matter. Family doesn’t matter. Only the cause matters.”
He was twisting the knife. He was praising me for the worst thing I had ever done. He was making me the villain publicly.
“To Elena,” Nico said, raising his glass to me.
“The girl who knows how to do what is necessary.”
“To Elena!” Matteo shouted.
The crowd echoed it, confused but obedient. “To Elena!”
I felt sick. I felt like I was going to vomit on the expensive carpet.
I looked for Julian.
He was still standing there. But he wasn’t toasting. He was staring at Nico with pure hatred.
Then, Julian locked eyes with me. He nodded, just once. A tiny, almost invisible movement.
Nico saw the look. His hand clamped onto the back of my neck, his thumb pressing into the sensitive skin under my ear.
“You are looking at the wrong man,” Nico whispered in my ear, loud enough for only me to hear.
He turned me forcefully so I was facing him.
“Dance with me,” he ordered.
“I don’t want to,” I whispered.
“I didn’t ask.”
He pulled me against his chest. His hand splayed across the small of my back, burning through the thin silk.
The DJ changed the song. It was a slow, dark, electronic beat.
Nico began to move. He was a good dancer. He led with absolute authority. I had no choice but to follow.
We spun in the center of the VIP section, high above the crowd.
“You see them?” Nico murmured, looking out at the sea of black and white. “They hate you. They think you are a monster.”
“Because you made me one,” I said.
“No,” Nico corrected. “I just revealed what you are capable of. You saved yourself, Elena. You chose your life over your uncle’s career. That is survival. That is Blackwood.”
He spun me out and pulled me back in, hard. My chest crashed against his.
“Julian Thorne thinks he can save you,” Nico said. His eyes were dark gray storms. “He thinks you are a victim.”
Nico lowered his head until his lips were inches from mine.
“But we know the truth, don’t we, Little Mouse? You fit in better with the wolves than the sheep.”
He looked at my lips. For a second, a terrifying second, I thought he was going to kiss me in front of everyone.
My heart raced. Not just from fear. But from the proximity.
“Don’t look at him again,” Nico whispered. “Or I will break his hands so he can never play the piano again.”
He let me go.
I stood there, breathless, dizzy, and terrified.
Across the room, Julian turned and walked away.
***
Nico didn’t take me back to the sofa.
His hand was a steel clamp on my upper arm, steering me away from the VIP balcony and toward a heavy velvet curtain at the back of the hall.
“Where are we going?” I gasped, trying to keep up with his long strides in my impossible heels.
“Somewhere quiet,” he growled. “You’re too loud, Elena. Your eyes are screaming things you shouldn’t be thinking.”
He swept the curtain aside and shoved me through.
We weren’t in a hallway. We were in a private lounge, a small, suffocatingly dark room reserved for the deepest pockets at Blackwood.
The walls were padded with black leather.
The only light came from the crack beneath the door and a dim, red sconce on the wall. The bass of the music outside was a dull, rhythmic thumping, like a giant heartbeat.
I barely had time to blink before Nico spun me around.
He slammed me against the padded wall. The air left my lungs in a rush.
“You looked at him again,” Nico whispered.
He didn’t give me time to answer. He pressed his body flush against mine, pinning me. He was hard, heavy, and radiating a terrifying amount of heat.
“I didn’t,” I lied, my breath hitching.
“Liar.”
Nico brought his face down to mine. He didn’t kiss me. Instead, he buried his face in the crook of my neck, inhaling deeply. His nose brushed against the sensitive skin below my ear, sending a jolt of electricity straight to my stomach.
“You still smell like him,” he murmured against my skin. The vibration of his voice went through my bones.
He pulled back just enough to look at me. His pupils were blown wide. He looked like a man starving.
“I need to scrub it off you.”
He crushed his mouth to mine.
It wasn’t a kiss. It was a raid. His lips were rough, demanding, forcing mine apart. I tried to turn my head, but his hand tangled in my hair, holding me in place. He tasted like expensive scotch.
I made a muffled sound of protest, pushing against his chest. But pushing Nico was like pushing a stone wall. He swallowed the sound, his tongue sweeping into my mouth, taking ownership of my breath.
And then, the betrayal.
My body, traitorous and adrenaline-flooded, responded. My hands stopped pushing and curled into the lapels of his tuxedo jacket. My head fell back against the leather wall.
Nico felt the surrender. He groaned, a low, guttural sound in his throat.
His hands left my hair and roamed down my body. He traced the curve of my waist, the flare of my hips. He felt the boning of the corset I was wearing.
“This dress,” he muttered, breaking the kiss to bite my lower lip. “It’s a wrapper. And I want to tear it open.”
He grabbed the skirt of the red gown. His hand found the high slit and slid underneath the layers of silk chiffon.
The air in the room felt suddenly thin.
His hand was large and calloused. It moved up my bare thigh, rough skin against smooth. I gasped, my knees buckling, but he held me up with his body.
“Nico,” I pleaded, though I didn’t know what I was asking for. “Stop.”
“Make me,” he challenged.
His hand went higher. Past my thigh. Past the garters holding up my stockings.
He found the strip of lace panty I was wearing.
He didn’t be gentle. He cupped me through the lace, his palm hot and firm. He pressed the heel of his hand against me, hard.
I cried out. It was a sharp, involuntary sound.
“There you are,” Nico whispered. He was watching my face, watching my eyes roll back, watching the shame and the pleasure war in my expression.
He began to move his hand. A slow, grinding friction that was agonizingly good.
“You hate me,” he said against my ear, biting the lobe. “Tell me how much you hate me, Elena.”
“I hate you,” I sobbed, my hips moving to meet his hand despite myself.
“Good.”
He slipped his fingers beneath the lace.
He touched me. Directly. Wet heat met rough fingers.
I shattered. My vision blurred. I dug my nails into his shoulders, arching my back off the wall. It was too much sensation, the fear, the music thumping in the walls, the scent of him, the intrusion of his fingers.
“You are so responsive,” Nico growled. “For a girl who wants to run away, your body seems very happy to stay right here.”
He picked up the pace, he was fingering me so hard, his rhythm matching the bass outside. He was relentless. He wasn’t letting me breathe. He was driving me toward a cliff edge, forcing me to feel everything I wanted to deny.
“Please,” I panted. “Nico, please.”
“Please what?”
“Please…”
I was close. I was so close to falling apart in his hands.
And then, he stopped.
He withdrew his hand abruptly.
The loss of contact was a physical shock. I almost fell, sliding down the wall a few inches before I caught myself. I stood there, chest heaving, lips swollen, my body throbbing and empty.
Nico took a step back.
He adjusted his cuffs. He straightened his tie. He looked composed, while I looked like I had been ravaged by a storm.
He held up his hand. It was glistening wet.
He looked at it, then brought his fingers to his mouth. He licked them, his eyes locking onto mine with a dark, predatory satisfaction.
“You taste like mine,” he said.
I stared at him, mortified and trembling
“Why?” I whispered. “Why stop?”
Nico smirked. It was the cruelest thing I had ever seen.
“Because I control the game, Elena. You come when I say you come. You break when I say you break.”
He reached out and fixed a strap on my dress that had fallen down my shoulder.
“And tonight,” he said softly, “I just wanted to remind you that Julian might hold your hand… but I hold everything else.”
He opened the door. The loud music and bright lights flooded back into the dark room.
“Fix your lipstick,” Nico commanded, turning his back on me. “We have an audience waiting.”
I stood alone in the dark for a second, my legs shaking, the ghost of his touch still burning between my legs.
I hated him. God, I hated him.
But as I smoothed my dress and wiped my mouth, the terrifying truth settled in my gut.
I hadn’t pushed him away.
TBC
