Page 82 of Love to Defy You
The figures close in on me and pull me off the bench by my arms. They tear at my clothes, ripping my T-shirt down the middle, but when they grab onto the waistband of my slacks, I try to push them off. I’m outnumbered, and they easily force my arms behind my back while someone yanks down my pants and underwear.
They drag me into the hall, and the discordant shouting and cymbal crashing grow louder. The other candidates are shoved into the hallway, stark naked, as a crowd of cloaked figures sweeps them down the corridor. Fighting back would be like trying to swim against an ocean current. Useless.
The noise rings in my ears and reaches a fever pitch when we arrive in the inner chamber. Their voices bounce off the arched ceilings as they march us in a straight line toward the center of the room, where they shove us to our knees on the cold, damp floor. My shins protest the impact of the hard stone on my bones.
Someone yells on my right, but before I can even turn to look, frigid water crashes over me. I gasp at the jarring assault on my senses and wipe water from my eyes. The liquid dripping down my bare back is so cold it burns. When I glance down the row, the other candidates are screaming and shivering as cloaked figures dump buckets of ice water over their heads and shout obscenities at us, calling us filthy dogs, sons of whores, and pig fuckers.
At last, the shouting and cymbal crashing stop, but the echo reverberates in the room for a solid five seconds before fading to silence.
A figure steps forward and lowers his hood—Enzo Messina. His dark gaze takes in my naked, shivering form on the floor, and the bastard smirks, clearly enjoying every bit of my humiliation.
“Welcome, candidates, to the Trial of Hubris.” Enzo paces along the row, looking down at each of us over his nose. “To overcome this ritual, you will bare all to your brothers—your bodies and your deepest secrets—and at the end of this weekend, you will be one step closer to becoming a god.”
“In death, we become gods!” the hooded figures shout in unison. “We are gods among men!” They thump their chests once before falling silent.
“We will break you down to build you back up again.” Enzo’s penetrating gaze meets mine. “We will rebuild you into something stronger than before. Into a god.” With a sweep of his cloak, he turns his back on us and approaches the raised platform beneath the wall of skulls. At the top is a black leather recliner that resembles a dentist’s chair, and beside it, a burly, bearded man sits on a stool with full sleeves of tattoos running up his arms. He cleans a set of tools on a silver tray.
My stomach lurches. Will they pluck out our teeth and add them to their grotesque Altar of the Dead?
Enzo runs his hand over the leather chair with a reverent touch. “Who shall go first?”
We keep our mouths shut, and the silence roars in my ears.
“No volunteers?” Enzo clucks his tongue. “No matter. Let’s start with Aleksandr.” His lips curl into a wicked grin. “Come here.”
One of the figures standing behind me yanks me to my feet and pushes me forward. I stumble before catching my balanceand make my way to the front of the room. The scar slashing across my bare ass is visible for all to see, and their staring makes the air so thick, it’s hard to breathe.
Enzo gestures at the chair, and when I step onto the platform, I examine the tray of tools next to the burly man. I blow out a breath when I realize they aren’t pulling my teeth out today. I’ve never gotten a tattoo, but I know what a tattoo gun looks like.
My choice is clear: get branded or die.
The skulls on the wall stare at me with empty sockets and toothy grins, mocking me.
“Sit down, Aleksandr.” Enzo’s voice cuts through the silence. “Let us begin.”
I take a seat on the leather chair. I’m so cold my bones ache, and goosebumps rise on my shivering limbs as my teeth chatter.
“This is Gunther.” Enzo steps behind the burly man and pats his shoulders. “He’s an honorary member who has tattooed generations of brothers with the symbol of Apollo.”
Gunther yanks on my right arm and positions it palm-up on the armrest. He fastens a metal cuff around my wrist, shackling me to the chair, then takes an alcohol wipe and rubs it on my forearm.
When Enzo pulls up a stool on my left side, I resist the urge to growl like a rabid dog. I don’t want him anywhere near me while I lie bound and naked in a tattoo chair, but he secures the other cuff around my left wrist.
He runs his fingertip along my forearm. “Where did you get these scars?”
“I don’t see how that’s any of your concern,” I bite back.
Enzo shakes his head. “This is part of your test, Aleksandr. You must be honest with your brothers about your past.”
Gunther begins to outline the design on my skin with a stencil and pen.
“I’ll only ask one more time.” Enzo presses the pad of his finger against one of my white, circular scars. “Where did these come from?”
I grit my teeth. “From my father.”
Enzo stills. “Go on.”
I glance down at my dick, which has shriveled and receded in this frigid chamber. “My father enjoyed cigars just as much as he enjoyed putting them out on my arm.”
