Page 18 of Liar
After watching Savannah for the last few hours and contemplating what she endured simply for being the daughter of a senator, I’m realizing, now more than ever, how precarious my position in this privileged and deadly world really is.
Even the Societies couldn’t save her.
Luke’s hand slams into the middle of my back and shoves me forward. In my intense contemplation, didn’t even realize he’d moved behind me.
“You’re up,” he says. “Cum Bucket.”
“You know, you’re really taking to the status of ‘goon,’” I quip, lifting my skirts to stride forward. “Or is it ‘lapdog’?”
Luke doesn’t have time to snarl a response before I glide through the archway and into the light.
My entrance is probably how gladiators felt before stepping into the Roman arena to face a rigged battle.
I’m on a type of platform with Greek-inspired columns on each side. The room is circular—no, octagon shaped—with a stone statue on every side, with large fire bowls on stands interspersed throughout.
Members gather near the center, forming a circle. Strangely, the first thing my mind focuses on is that no one’s wearing a cloak.
The Nobles are dressed in black, the Virtues in white. The small, lizard part of my brain rejoices in my survival—I’m wearing white, too. I must still be one of them.
They all hold a single rose. My gaze falls upon Savannah, standing in the center of the circle on top of a gold crest.
“Welcome, Ember Weatherby.”
Damion’s voice causes me to pause in my hesitant stroll to the front of the platform. I turn in his direction. He’s dressed in an all-black suit as well, his silver hair and bright blue eyes in stark contrast. But his eyes aren’t on me. I follow their direction back to Savannah, who holds up a wilting rose, the last in her hand, and says, ““This is for my temporary replacement. For there can only be one of us.”
Excuse me, what?
I raise my brows as my mouth falls open. Gone is the vulnerable tremble to her voice. Her gaze is steady on mine. Unreadable.
“That’s right,” Damion says. “As has been tradition for hundreds of years, there can only be twelve Winthorpe members at any given time. I’m afraid we’re at the unlucky number thirteen.”
“She’s earned her place here!”
The shout turns every head. Every one but mine. I know that tone. Could pick it out even if I were deaf, because I would still feel its vibrations as it traveled through my skin, embraced my bones, and claimed my blood.
Damion continues in an untroubled voice,“I see that my son, your prince, has finally decided to make himself known. Come up here, boy.”
Thorne breaks the circle by shoving through two Nobles and storming up to the platform. He doesn’t spare Savannah a glance. His stare bores through the air, drilling into the side of my face.
I don’t turn toward him.
“Ember is a legacy,” Thorne growls, stepping between Damion and me. His shadow almost swallows me whole. “Not only that, she’s passed every challenge you’ve given her, including the impossible feat of beating my record to the top of Devil’s Ridge.”
So that’s what that fucked-up relay race of my life was called. I step to the side, Thorne’s form so all-encompassing, it’s hard to breathe under his protection.
“Indeed she did,” Damion responds. Too mildly. My gaze darts to Thorne’s back. Usually, any rebellion by his son is met with wrath and fury.
And any defense of me is met with torture.
“Thorne, don’t,” I say in a low voice. The members below stare up at us, enraptured. Savannah is no exception.
“I’ll argue that Savannah Merricourt also earned her place here,” Damion continues, “as she’s proven by surviving the horrendous condition of being taken against her will and enduring whatever her captors wanted from her.”
My eyes ping over to Savannah again. She hasn’t moved from her spot in the center of the circle, but she’s gone as white as her dress.
I’m forced to admit Damion has a point.
The responding slope of Thorne’s shoulders tells me he sees it, too.