Sancte Diaboli: Part Two (The Elite King's Club 7)

I shuffle up the bed to rest my head against the abundance of pillows. “The only people I’m truly close to are Brantley, Bishop, and Madison and Tillie. That’s all.”

Ophelia stands, hand on her hip while she begins pacing the room. “It has to be one of them.” She runs her fingers through her long hair, brushing it back. “There’s no other way he could possibly put you under like that.”

“So let me get this straight.” Nate takes a seat on the only chair in the corner of my room. “He’s using hypnosis and then visiting her in her dream state?”

“Yes,” Ophelia says. “It is possible. But you have to know what you’re doing.”

I rest back against my headboard. “This is getting tedious.”

Brantley

I’m known to be unreasonable when it comes to Saint. I’m aware of that. But every single fucking night that she goes to sleep, I can’t rest. It has been three fucking weeks and we still have no lead on whoever the fuck it is that’s playing mind games with her, and on top of that, both leads we had on Veronica have run cold. The Coven is completely cleaned out, except for the furniture, and I’ve sent Benny on a mission to find the other two girls who were in The Coven with Saint. I want them both caged until I know exactly what their part was in all of this. They’re on borrowed time if they were in bed with Veronica. One thing I’m thankful for during all of this, is there’s no Kings’ business bringing more heat to our plate. I haven’t let my mind travel to that place where I’ve locked away my guilt because I know it can consume me. I need Veronica dead, and I preferably need to be the one who does it. I don’t kill women, children, or old people—unless they’re fucking rapists and pedophiles. But I’ll make an exception for her. First, I need to know why.

I lean down and touch the unmarked headstone, swiping the green vines that wrap around the edges. “If only dead men speak. I could do with a hint of what the fuck Veronica Vitiosis ever wanted with Saint.” Lucan was a piece of shit. He more than hurt people; he destroyed them, and I was just another product of his carnage. But if there’s one thing I found odd about him is that he never, ever ratted out Saint. He never spoke of her to anyone. At first, I assumed he did that for Hector. Lucan Vitiosis was absolute with his undying loyalty to The Kings. I was happy with that. Fucking glad. He may have been a perverted pedophile who preyed on young people and got off on watching his son deflower virgins, but he had one redeeming factor: his loyalty to The Kings and his willingness to destroy anything to protect the Vitiosis name.

I realize how fucking stupid that sounds. If Lucan didn’t give a fuck about anyone and anything but himself, it would be easier for me to hate him—and I hate him—I hate him with every single fucking ounce of what makes me, me. I don’t need more reasons to hate the man, which is why I have no issue admitting that. Veronica is different. Did she and Lucan plan this all-a-fucking-long? Did Lucan always know she was alive? No. Can’t be. The mind of a Vitiosis is an endless pit of confusion. They’re the snake in the grass you don’t want to step on. Every single movement they make is calculated and thoroughly thought-out. I’m just like them. To my very core, a fucking Vitiosis, but I’m working hard to use it in a different way. Not how they always did.

My loyalty to The Kings is unmatched, but my loyalty to Saint is lethal. I’d walk through flames for her before I ever allow her to so much as feel the heat of pain.

When I met her, I was fascinated, but when I came to know her, she was my obsession. I treated her as my possession because if I looked at her as a girl, I knew I’d fuck her. I could never trust myself with her. Not even in my thoughts. So I blocked it all out. I blocked her out. I became void, which was easy. I was a Vitiosis, after all. I became the snake in the grass that curled around her feet, waiting for someone to come too close before I’d bite.

“Didn’t think I’d find you out here.” Just the sound of her voice is enough to disarm me. I don’t like her being so close to Lucan, even if he’s dead.

I turn to face her, leaning against his headstone. Her eyes float down, her head tilting. “Whose grave is that?”

I squeeze the stone, decaying rocks crumbling to the ground. “No one.”