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“Let’s get this show on the road,” Bram says, suddenly sounding very excited as he slips his mask into position before climbing out of the car.

Lawson gets out too, before reaching over to help me, given I don’t have the use of my hands. Once I’ve found my feet, and Lawson does one final check to make sure the robe and mask are in place, he pulls his own mask on and turns to face the imposing building.

Lawson places his hand on my back, using it to guide me forward, while Bram stays tight to my other side. The two of them caging me in as we walk towards the entrance.

My breath hitches and my heart speeds up when we get inside, the Grand Hall full of men in robes, probably just as many as the night of the Gifting Ceremony. And despite hoping we’re going to sit at the back of the room, out of the way, I’m not at all surprised when the guys lead me straight to the front row.

Bram slides into the row first, taking the seat next to another Order member, while Lawson pushes me in next, before taking the aisle seat and caging me in.

I’ve barely had time to get my breathing under control when a loud bang startles me, and I glance up as Xander, the Head of Crowhurst House, strides through the door he just slammed open, his robes flowing behind him, his mask noticeably absent.

He doesn’t stop until he’s standing on the small stage-like platform at the front of the room, the stained glass window behind splashing him with an array of colours as the sun sets outside. He clears his throat so that when he speaks, he’s able to project all the way to the back of the room.

“Thank you all for coming. As per Obsidian Order policy, our church is now in session. We will present the evidence, and then we will pass judgement.”

As soon as he finishes speaking, the door he just entered through opens once more, and we all turn to watch as two men in robes drag into the room a bloody, beaten man, his feet trailing behind him. They pull him up onto the stage, his head hanging low as blood drips from his face.

The man is only wearing a pair of black boxers, showing that his exposed skin is littered with cuts, bruises, and open wounds. There’s a mixture of dry blood coating his flesh, and fresh blood oozing from him.

He doesn’t put up a fight as the two men place him on a chair that a third man has brought onto the stage, his body resembling that of a rag doll as they roughly manipulate him into position, tying him down.

It’s only when one man takes a fistful of his hair and drags his head back, so he can wrap a leather belt around his neck, do I recognise who it is, a small gasp leaving me when recognition hits.

Nigel—the Pledge from the bar that drugged me.

I tremble, the chilling memories of that night flashing through my head, as a cold dread washes over me again. Bram digs his nails into my thigh. It’s a sharp, grounding pain that makes it clear I’m making more noise than I should be, as my ragged breaths and stifled whimpers betray the panic that has seized me.

I focus on inhaling, despite the burning in my lungs, desperate to stop my body from trembling. Though I have to work even harder when Lawson stands from his seat beside me and walks over to where Xander is calling him forward.

Lawson stands on the stage between Xander and Nigel, and I let out a small gasp when he pulls his mask off, letting everyone in the room see his cold, hard face. He doesn’t need to clear his throat the way Xander did, as his voice is sharp and firm as he projects it over the entire room, confidence oozing from every pore.

I have to admit, it’s a little sexy—not sure what that says about me.

“This is Nigel; he’s a first-year Crow Pledge, and he’s charged with treason.”

There’s an echo of gasps that seem to spread around the room, making it clear to me this isn’t something the Order faces regularly. Then again, growing up with my father in the Order taught me enough that I could have guessed not many people choose to betray them, given that the punishment is your life.

Lawson then turns to Nigel, who looks like he’s only able to face the crowd because the leather belt tying his head to the high-back chair is holding it up for him. I doubt he’d be able to hold his own head up, given the way his vacant eyes seem to flutter open and closed on their own.

“How do you plead?” Lawson asks, but Nigel remains silent, looking as if he’s not even aware he’s being spoken to.

The man in the silver mask standing beside him slaps his cheeks twice until the fog seems to clear from his gaze. I can tell he’s back in the room because terror is written on his face.

Lawson repeats his question again, but this time, Nigel is quick to shout out his answer. “Not guilty. This is all a big misunderstanding.”

Lawson’s lips twist into a sadistic smile, as if he’s pleased with Nigel’s answer, even though he knows it’s not the truth. He takes a step towards Nigel and punches him in the stomach. Nigel cries out as he gasps for air, wounded by the blow.

“I think you’re lying,” Lawson says casually, while Nigel shakes his head rapidly, blood droplets flying all around him.

“I-I’m not,” Nigel whimpers, sounding decidedly less sure of himself.

Lawson pulls a knife out of his pocket, holding it up so the light from the stained-glass reflects against the shiny blade, as fear flashes on Nigel’s face.

He’s so well tied down, he’s barely able to move at all, but as Lawson stalks towards him with the knife held out in front, Nigel does everything he can to get free, thrashing around desperately, despite being unable to move at all. His energy levels wane quickly, and as Lawson reaches him, Nigel sags in the chair, his body deflating like a balloon.

Lawson presses the blade into the top right of his chest, in line with his nipple, pushing slowly until a bead of blood peaks out around the knifepoint, as it slices through his skin like butter. He then drags the metal down over his skin in a diagonal motion, moving at an agonisingly slow pace, before stopping just above the waist of his boxers. Nigel’s skin has been sliced open in a line across his body, blood oozing from the wound as he sobs loudly.

“I’ll ask you again, how do you plead?” Lawson says, sounding even more bored, though the bloodlust in his eyes suggests he’s enjoying this very much.