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

“You all right?” Bishop asks me, breaking through my ridiculous train of thought. He’s seated directly opposite me and right beside Nate. Bishop’s eyes are the color of moss, with dark rings around the green. He has a similar shaped face to Brantley, only not as masculine. More pretty. Though I’m not sure if I’d call him pretty either. Actually—I shift my focus to Nate, and then to Brantley, and to Bishop again. I met the other guy who was here earlier, too, Eli, I think his name was. He was handsome, too. They all are. Just all a different brand.

I nod at Bishop when I realize I’ve taken a little too long to answer. “Sure.”

He tilts his head, and it’s as though no one else is here. Everyone seated around us dissolves into thin air. “When did you figure out you liked Korean food?”

I pick my fork up again and shuffle it through the sauce and meat. “When I smelled it for the first time.”

“—which was?” he further asks, and my eyes snap up to meet his.

Brantley tenses beside me. “Ask the fucking question you want to ask, asshole. Go on.”

I’m instantly confused. The dynamic of the group is confounding. First, they’re hitting each other and threatening to kill one another, and then the next they’re sitting down to have a meal. But on top of these two factors, there’s something else that is always around them. It’s strong and indestructible.

Something I can’t quite figure out.

“Fine, I will.” Bishop smirks before leaning forward and resting his elbows on top of the table. “Did this guy ever let you out of the house?”

Instant. “No.”

Bishop’s eyes narrow on Brantley. “I get it. You’re the fucked-up one, but wow.”

Brantley chuckles, and it’s so unfamiliar that I find myself looking up at him. When I say up, I really mean up. I could fit in the palm of his hand. “You’re one to talk. Chasing Madison through forests with our faces on was any better?”

“All right.” Nate shakes his head, cutting through the conversation. “No fucking arguing while we eat.”

Brantley reaches for his glass and brings the rim up to his mouth, swallowing whatever is inside of it. The muscles in his jaw jolt as he tenses. When he places his glass back onto the table, his teeth drag over the swell of his bottom lip before he finally says, “She never saw the outside world because of our world, you feel?”

When everyone falls silent, I twist my fork on my plate. I’m never one to pass up food, but the tension is bloating the air.

“Brantley’s right,” I whisper. “It was never a—” I pause, not that I’m struggling to find the right words to say what I want to say, but because I’ve never spoken about my life before to anyone. It was sacred. Brantley never told me that I wasn’t to say anything to anyone; it had always been a decision of mine to not want to talk about him. I never wanted to talk about him in fear that others might say something bad about him. Not that I couldn’t handle it. I’ve been on the receiving end of his mood swings more times than I can count growing up, but that never once stopped me from being protective over him. So maybe that’s why I’m talking now. “It was never a prison environment.”

“You just weren’t allowed out of the house? Did you go to school?” Bishop asks.

I bring my eyes to his. “I didn’t, but what I had was three of the best lecturers in the United States of America who would tutor me five days a week. Math, English, and science.” No one is speaking, so I continue. “I didn’t need anything else. I made friends with the maid and the cook, and I was happy with that.” I look back up at Brantley. “Am happy with that.”

He’s ignoring me. I’m used to it. But his focus is on Bishop.

Bishop exhales, running his hands through his hair.

“Okay, look, we get it. You’re on edge, B. But you can’t be lashing out—” Nate is cut off once again by Bishop.

“—how long have you been talking to her?” Bishop snaps, now at Tillie.

I’m getting whiplash from all of the directions these arguments are going.

Tillie crosses her arms in front of herself. “I don’t know what you’re talking about.”

“Cut the shit, Tills. How long?”

Tillie flips Bishop off and stands from her chair, grabbing her plate and leaving for the kitchen.

“Nice, asshole. Throw me in the doghouse.” Nate glares at Bishop before following Tillie into the kitchen.

Brantley stands, one hand slipping beneath my arm, and I briefly watch as his fingers overlap when they go around my entire limb. “Bishop.”

Bishop ignores him, his eyes trained on one spot on the table.

Brantley turns to me. “Go wait outside. I’ll be out in a second.”