Sancte Diaboli Part One (The Elite King's Club 6)

We start dishing out the meals into glass serving bowls, and I pull the bread buns out of the oven. Spices suffocate you as soon as you walk into the kitchen, with the subtle touch of freshly baked bread.

“Am I interrupting?” Brantley murmurs from the threshold between the kitchen and the dining room. In the dining room, there’s a big circular table with a crystal chandelier that hangs over the center. Vibrant red is clothed over the table with silver cutlery elegantly placed around the seating. It feels formal, yet it doesn’t.

Brantley is in full form. Frozen, unmoved, but his eyes remain on mine.

I smile up at him, flashing my teeth. His jaw tenses. “No. Hungry?”

“Oh damn! Is that Korean?” Bishop sidesteps past Brantley and enters the kitchen, peeking into the bowls that we’ve dished the food out in. He dips his finger into the sauce of the Japchae and sucks it off his finger while looking up at me. “You make this? I sure as shit know Tillie can’t cook.”

Tillie shoves him. “I shouldn’t be cooking for all you animals. Or have you forgotten that I’m carrying the first Elite King generation—” She pauses. “What generation will he be?”

“He?” Nate asks, slipping his arms around her from behind and laying a gentle kiss on the top of her head. “Already guessing, huh?” All their talking dies out as plates and cutlery slam around the kitchen, but my eyes stay on Brantley. He’s wearing black denim—Givenchy—I know this because I know fashion—and a plain black tee with a few tear marks sliced through. Kanye’s line, if I have to guess.

“Are you going to eat?” I ask in challenge. He doesn’t move, and I take this time to study his features, as if I didn’t already know them by heart. A jaw so sharp you’d think it had been cut with a surgical scalpel, lines so precise that perfection wouldn’t even be an adequate word to describe them. Cheekbones slightly sunken in, just enough to shadow his facial structure in every lighting, and then there are his lips. The way they billow out just a little, with dips and curves in all the places you want them to be. They’re probably a little on the larger side, yet they only complement him. Skin so pale, but with lashes as black as the eyes that hide behind. His hair always looks like he can never be bothered brushing it, a little long on the top, while the sides faded out to a shave. Aside from his appearance, he stands at six-six and could lift a damn car with the muscles that are hidden beneath his clothes. Whoever created Brantley did it with intent. Intention for him to either run Hell or guard it. I haven’t figured out which yet.

Pushing off the wall, he finally ambles farther into the kitchen, reaching for two plates and spooning a variety of food onto both. I watch as he loads one plate to the brim, but keeps the other more on the smaller portion size. He grabs a couple of bread buns, and then with his eyes back on mine, he nudges his head toward the table in the dining room where everyone is seated. I follow behind him quietly, dropping down onto the seat directly beside him as he places my plate in front of me. The smaller portion. What if I liked to eat? I almost want to take his plate and leave him with mine, but I don’t. Mainly because I can’t blame him. It’s not like we’ve ever eaten a meal together.

Tillie and Nate’s dining room is something I can appreciate. Pillars are lined in a circle, with the table right in the center. Whoever designed this house should be proud. It’s warm, inviting, while still remaining somewhat classic. Tillie told me how old she was. Do all people this age have this kind of money? Money has never been an issue for Brantley and me either. Not that I don’t have a general concept of it. Or maybe I don’t. I’m not sure. I was given a card and told to use it whenever I wanted to buy things. Brantley had also said there was no limit, and so far, he was right. I busy myself with picking at my food when everyone around the table starts to talk amongst themselves about topics I don’t understand. Every now and then, Tillie fires shots at Brantley, who throws them right back. He’s different with her. I noticed it instantly, how he treats me and even his other friends. My chest tightens and I swipe my palms down my thighs to wipe the sweat off them. What the hell. Something flutters in my stomach and I reach for the glass of juice that’s in front of me, taking a generous sip. I’ve never had to see him with other people who aren’t people who work for us or his father. Everything feels different.