Page 86 of Liar
“You’d better,” Damion says, then turns to address the Society. “The Weatherbys have betrayed us. The entire line is polluted, and I, as current king and leader of the Nobles, am moving to terminate the entire ancestry and future heirs from ever becoming a Societal member. Does the queen object?”
Dupris—or who I assume is Dupris—moves out of the circle and comes to a stop on Damion’s other side. “Sadly, I cede to your decision, Damion. Incontrovertible proof exists where Ember attempted to expose the Society and Malcolm officially committed to exposing our deepest secrets to laypeople who would never understand the strength, loyalty, and sacrifice required to become a Noble or Virtue. For that reason, I stand with you.”
My stomach sinks. Malcolm bows his head, his normally coiffed hair hanging in silver strings past his brows. His chest rises and falls in an erratic rhythm.
Half of me is desperate for him to fight or show one iota of passion when it comes to standing up to Damion. The other half hopes he stays quiet and doesn’t give Damion more reason to hurt him. I don’t know which one should win.
“Hey.”
The male buzz at my ear makes me jump. Luckily, my lips were already pressurized shut while watching the tense proceedings so I didn’t make a sound.
Jaxon hovers beside me, his hood disguising his features enough that I squint to ensure it’s him.
He reaches up and pulls aside part of his hood to reveal his profile. I nod in confirmation, then get right to it, whispering, “How do we stop this?”
“We have to see how Mr. Briar will play this, first,” he responds.
“Eliminating the entire Weatherby bloodline sounds like the plan,” I whisper fiercely.
Jaxon shakes his head. “The king never does what you’d expect. We have to lay low until I get the signal from Thorne.”
I scrunch my eyes at him suspiciously. Malcolm is at the Noble king and prince’s feet, bared from the waist up. It’s obvious that physical punishment is about to ensue along with the official termination of his Noble membership. I have no idea what that entails, but it can’t be good. If I didn’t know any better…
“Are you here to keep me quiet?” I ask. “Thorne doesn’t have any plans to involve me, does he? He wants me out of the way, and you’re here to help him do it.”
Jaxon keeps quiet. The fact he doesn’t act surprised or bother to defend Thorne tells me all I need to know.
Dammit, and I fell for it, with Thorne’s long looks, deft fingers, and impassioned words…
I growl, “I am not standing here while Malcolm gets—”
Damion’s voice rings out. “I asked you to assist me in forcing Malcolm’s presence here and invited all Winthorpe members to witness this moment so you may truly understand what can happen if you refuse to follow Societal edicts.”
I turn my back on Jaxon and fly against the statue, practically splitting my nails from how hard I press into it.
Damion gestures to a red cloak who marches to the ceremonial fire bowl crackling and sparking behind Damion and Thorne. He lifts the handle to a stick that had been resting in the flames and passes it to Damion like he’s holding the Olympic torch. Damion accepts it with just as much aplomb.
It’s then I realize it’s not a torch, but thick, heavy iron of some sort, the end glowing a dangerous red.
“Malcolm Weatherby, you are to be forever branded with that of a conspirator, a deceiver, and a treasonist. You will wear this mark for the rest of your pathetic life. Any attempts to cover it will be immediately known to me, and I will be forced to escalate your punishment to amputation. If, even then, you refuse to comport to your new rules as a disgraced member, it will result in your death.”
“No,” I whisper against the cold stone statue. I push off, readying to sprint around and reveal myself, become a distraction, anything to stop Malcolm from agreeing to such a one-sided deal.
I know which side should win now. Malcolm needs to fight his way out of here, and I’ll help him.
A hand hooks the back of my hood and pulls. The clasp becomes a collar at my throat, and I gag as I’m dragged back.
I reel around to hiss at Jaxon for stopping me—but it’s not Jaxon.
He bears the same eyes, but with a vicious strain to them, further enhanced by the bright red robe flowing across his shoulders.
“Dad—” Jaxon starts.
The viscount holds Jaxon by the back of the neck in his other hand. “My arrogant, stupid son. What do you think you’re doing, harboring this girl? Do you want to be next down there? Huh?”
“Dad, you don’t understand. Thorne—”
Thaddeus Murray shakes his son, then tosses him back against the wall. “Stay here and let me fix this. Do not utter one sound. Do you understand?”