1
EMMETT
It was finally my turn.
I’d patiently watched all my friends from my recruit group be initiated into The Order of the Silver Ghost before me. Walker and I were the last to go, and I couldn’t wait to get my time over with. It wasn’t like I was overly anxious to be part of the Order for the same reasons that Montgomery or Beau were. I didn’t grow up waiting for when I’d finally come of age. I wasn’t bred for this like the men before me. There wasn’t a speck of blue-blood in my veins. My father was the first in our family to be a member of the Order, and I would be the second.
Young blood.
Young money.
An outsider trying to belong to a secret society that rarely allowed newcomers in.
Though it would have been very hard for the Elders of the Order to deny my father access to their club full of the rich and powerful. They couldn’t resist having him as part of their society when my father had more money in his pinky than some of them had combined. My family business, though not rich in history, was wealthy as fuck thanks to the world of technology, solar energy, and being on the cutting edge of the future. Our new money engulfed the meager millions these men touted. Therefore, we bought our way into their boys’ club.
Were we treated differently?
Fuck yes, we were.
But my father earned his place and his respect, and now it was my turn to do the same.
Would I have to work harder than the other men in my recruit group to prove I deserved to become a member of the Order?
I thought that was a given, but I was up for the challenge. In fact, I welcomed it. I planned on showing every member of the Order just how much I belonged in this dark and twisted society that lived behind the haunted walls of Oleander Manor.
I knew I’d have Trials. I knew they weren’t for the weak or the timid. And though most of the Trials were only viewed by the members, and I was only going off information I got from rumors and the tales my friends who went through them before me told, I couldn’t help but be excited for my own opportunity. I had a thirst for the dirty, the depraved, and anything that pushed the limits.
Bring it.
I was ready.
And as the clock chimed and the canes of the silver-cloaked Elders banged on the white marble floor of the ballroom, my time had finally come.
I stood in my white tuxedo before a line of belles dressed in an assortment of colors and designs of custom-made ball gowns. Classic elegance, which I planned to sully pretty damn fast. Each woman looked so pure, so classy, so perfect. And yet… soon… if chosen… they would be anything but.
And I fucking loved that idea.
I already knew what I’d have to do from watching the men before me. I approached the belles with a black ribbon in my hand to choose the lucky girl who I’d spend the next 109 days breaking. So many choices, but I knew I needed to tear the pearl necklace off the neck of just one. But who?
Very slowly, I meandered my way down the line, not really having a type of woman I was looking for. I needed someone who would be strong and had the mental strength to handle all of what the Elders would throw our way. Each Belle I walked by who refused to make eye contact or who trembled slightly was quickly ruled out. I loved submissive women… but I wanted to be the man to make them that way. I wanted to tame the fire, not have it already smoldering when I arrived.
And then I saw her.
Though… I had to do a double take, because it didn’t seem right.
Bellamy Carmichael?
What the fuck was Bellamy Carmichael doing in the Oleander? The belles were supposed to be from the “wrong side of the tracks,” and Bellamy was anything but. I remembered her from Darlington Prep. The little rich girl, debutante, cheerleader, prom queen, and total bitch stood before me in a pink gown like the princess she believed herself to be.
Bellamy fucking Carmichael.
Her sea-blue eyes connected with mine the minute I stood before her. I knew she recognized me. I could see she knew exactly who I was, but other than her eyes, the rest of her face remained expressionless. Her shoulders were held back, her spine stiff, and I had to hand it to her years of pageant training to give her such posture and composure. A stiff breeze could knock some of the other belles down next to her, but not Bellamy.
Strong. She most certainly appeared to be.
I wanted to ask her why she was in the room. I wanted to ask how she became a Belle. But I also knew the rules—no talking.