Tacet a Mortuis (The Elite King's Club 3)

Nate gestured to the back of himself. “Basketball court, too.” He shot us a wink before disappearing. He was acting weird lately, weirder than usual.

After taking the two steps down onto the main lobby, I snatched a drink from a waiter passing by and took a long swig. I felt people’s eyes on me, but I ignored them all, focused on my search for Bishop. The song moved to “It’s a Vibe” from Ty Dollar sign and I couldn’t fight the eye roll. Obviously, Nate had found the sound system.

I started slightly pushing through the bodies and taking the two steps down from the lobby and kitchen area, down to the open sitting room when my eyes fell on Bishop who was stretched out on the sofa. His bare chest rippled under every movement, his tattoos flexing along with them. He had a red bandana tied to the front of his head, jeans that looked to have been out in the sun for a beat too long, and since he hadn’t actually texted me since a couple days ago, I was trying hard not to make it obvious how much I was checking him out. And—yep, he was drinking again. His eyes collided with mine and I felt as though the air was sucked out from my lungs. Machine Gun Kelly started rapping about being a “bad mother fucker,” just as the rim of his bottle touched his lip. His eyes stayed on mine, as the corner of his mouth slowly kicked up in a grin. I was hoping for a reaction. A caveman Bishop—if you will, but all I got was a brush off. Jesus. Was he still holding a grudge about Nate, Brantley, and I? I guessed it would be valid since he had let me off on it lightly, but I knew Bishop. He was calculated. He did everything for a reason and he performed it with expertise. Or maybe I had broken him a little, but even as I thought those words, I knew that that wasn’t possible. You just couldn’t break someone like Bishop. He was too… unbreakable.

So I did what any sane girl my age would do while under the influence. I yanked my eyes from his and went in search of my partner in crime. Bypassing the sea of people, I found myself again, annoyed that I couldn’t truly appreciate Bishop’s new condo, with the influx of women and—few men. Huh. There were more women than there were men. Surprise, surprise. Yet again, I didn’t know what game he was playing at, and before I could allow my brain to begin sifting through the possibilities, my toes started to tingle and my legs wobbled like jelly. Maybe I shouldn’t have started drinking so fucking early. Searching for a room—any room—away from all the people, I shoved through a pair of black doors and came into what I was guessing was the master bedroom. There was a bed that looked as though it was floating in the center, a large television hanging on the wall opposite, and directly in front of me was a wall of glass overlooking the city. The sheets and blankets were all silken black and red, and even the little seat that was in the corner was more like a throne in blood red leather. There wasn’t much else to the room—the penthouse itself felt more like an art studio. It wasn’t warm and inviting, and on that thought, I started backing up, ready to get the fuck out of here while deeply regretting even attending. Tate and her stupid decisions. Slowly stepping backward, I collided with a hard wall of muscle and a small squeal leaped out from my mouth. Jumping around to see who I backed into, Hunter’s piercingly dark eyes were glaring down at me.

I calmed my erratic heart down. “Hey.” My newfound brother and I weren’t really on great terms, so I was still unsure of how I should step around him.

“Figure we may as well get this talk over with.” He tilted a large bottle of bourbon up to me, and then brushed past, heading straight toward the window. For a brief second, I considered running, but I’d been wanting to see Hunter for a while now. Since he found out about us being biological siblings, he had gone more than cold on me, so, I followed him to the window, looking him up and down. He looked good, like they all did. Wearing jeans and a tight fitting black shirt, you could almost make out the lines of muscle in his arms.

“I’m sorry.” Because I was obviously shit at this—being an only child all my life and all, ‘I’m sorry’ was the first thing that came out of my mouth.

He snorted and then raised the bottle to his mouth. “What exactly are you sorry for, Madison?” He didn’t look at me, he merely kept his eyes forward, watching as the busy streets of the Upper East Side remained awake.