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

He smiles at me, reaching forward and brushing my hair out of my face. “I just got off the phone with Dad.”

“Okay?”

“Seems there’s been an incident back home.” He breathes in and out, and I automatically know this isn’t going to be good. Not just the words he’s saying, but the way he’s saying them.

“My dogs?” My hand is on my stomach as a range of emotions forces their way up my throat. I think I’m going to be sick.

He shakes his head, his eyes on mine. Pained, but serious. The muscles in the sides of his jaw flex a couple of times before he takes my hands with his. “When the explosion happened, it wasn’t just you, Ophelia, and Ivy at the house.”

“What?” I pause. White noise fills the gaps between him. I think I stop breathing altogether.

He blows out a breath. “It’s Bailey.” I don’t hear anything else because I shove back from my chair until I’m standing upright, only it happens in slow motion. “She was in her bedroom when it happened. She didn’t make it, princessa, I’m so fucking sorry.”

I shake my head. Sadness spills into the cracks of my mind as I try to wrap my head around Bailey not being here anymore. “No. She can’t be. I just saw her the other night. It can’t be.”

Bishop pushes off his chair and takes my hand with his, wrapping two of his fingers around my chin to bring my eyes to his. “It was her, Saint. I’m so fucking sorry.” The ball that was clogged in my throat explodes as pain, loss, and sorrow sink their nails into the marrow of my bones and begin tearing away at me from the inside out.

“No.” Tears stream down my face, but I don’t bother to wipe them away. I can’t seem to care.

Madison sobs in the background, but I don’t hear anything else. Bishop pulls me into his chest and wraps his arm around my waist. “I’m sorry, Saint.”

“It was my fault.” The words that leave my mouth are foreign. My stomach rolls and my chest contracts as an ugly guilt settles inside of me. Like rot, it’s going to spread.

“No, it wasn’t,” Brantley says, his fingers intertwining with mine from behind. For once, he doesn’t force me out of Bishop’s arms. Instead, he presses his lips to the back of my head. “It wasn’t your fault.”

I swipe the tears from my cheeks, turning and burying my face into Brantley’s arm. “Fix this.”

He directs my face up with a gentle tug of his finger, his eyes searching mine with a force I have never experienced before. In this moment, he is like a magnet, calling me. “I don’t know how to fix this, but I promise you that I will make things right.” The corners of his eyes soften, his mouth in a hard line. I see the fight he’s struggling with. To mourn his little cousin, one of the only people who has held him accountable, or to not allow that barrier to lower.

I bring my hand up to his cheek. Skin so soft, yet cheekbones so prominent. “You don’t have to hide anything, Brantley. We know you cared for her.”

The muscles beneath my palm tense. “I did.”

“Veronica dies tonight,” Madison says, breaking through the tense and somber atmosphere.

I look toward her as Brantley pulls me into his chest. Madison nods, swiping away her tears. “Bailey deserved better. Tonight, that bitch dies. I’m sick of her games.”

I nod in agreement. I don’t wish death upon anyone, but it’s hard to be against revenge. I know it’s not healthy. I know I will most likely live with both of their deaths for the rest of my days. I squeeze my eyes closed. “She deserved better.”

Brantley’s arm tenses around me before he falls down onto the stool I was on, pulling me onto his lap. He nudges his head up at Spyder. “Get those two fucking rabbits out of their room so we can start this hell raising.”

Brantley

“Saint’s still in The Coven?” Bailey asked, rounding the large sofa in the sitting room. “I take it by the almost empty bottle of whiskey on your lap, that’s a yes.” She flicked her hand up and down my body before falling down beside me, curling her legs under her ass. She gestured to the bottle and I shook my head, handing it to her. She takes a long pull without so much as wincing.

“Well, you’re definitely a Vitiosis.”

She stared at me beneath her lashes. “Did you expect otherwise?”

“No,” I answered, already not wanting to get into a conversation with anyone tonight. Just not tonight. Because tonight I found out that Saint cannot be mine. At least not in the way I needed her to be. If I couldn’t have her in that way, then I didn’t want her in any way. The old whiskey stung the back of my throat and I hissed, my eyes finding the fireplace. “She’s my sister.”