Athena
The weirdest thing about this whole fucked-up situation is how used I’ve gotten to it. It’s been easier since I’ve had my own clothes and a few of my things here—some of my books on the shelf in my room, outfits that feel familiar and comfortable. But I’ve also gotten used to the routine—even with some of the shit the guys subject me to, there is one. I come downstairs for breakfast, and they’re at the table, joking and laughing like I imagine any other group of guys in college do. They don’t even stop when I walk in the room, they just keep on chatting about sports or parties or whatever else they have to talk about as I take a plate and help myself to breakfast.
I have to remind myself that the days of me being forced to eat off of a plate on the floor aren’t that far behind, even if it feels like they are. It was just a couple of days ago that Dean took a belt to my ass, that Cayde pinned me up against a locker, that Dean took me to a country club and threatened to give me to his father’s friends for the afternoon. I’m not safe, even if this particular morning, the mood in the dining room is jovial, and none of the guys seem to have anything planned for me today—so far, at least.
I glance at them covertly as I add bacon and eggs to my plate—Dean is ignoring me, tucking into his breakfast, as usual, Cayde is wolfing down his as if he needs every ounce, and Jaxon is idly toying with a piece of toast.
The first thing I notice when I look at him is his face. There’s a purpling bruise on his cheekbone, which is cut and swollen, and another bruise on his jaw. When he reaches for the jam—which sends a flush over my cheeks—I have to stifle a gasp.
His knuckles are split and swollen and bruised as if he spent the night fighting.
I almost catch his gaze, but he looks away immediately. “I’m out,” Jaxon says suddenly, tossing down his piece of toast. “See you after class, guys.” He strides past me, his hands shoved in his pockets, and I feel my heart thud in my chest as I catch a whiff of his soap. I want to reach out and grab him, stop him, ask him what the fuck is going on, but he’s out of the room before I can even say a word.
“What happened to him?” I ask bluntly, looking at the other two. “Why the hell is he all beat up?”
Dean shrugs. “I guess he got into a fight.”
“Don’t you care?” I stare at him. “What about you, Cayde? Do you know what happened?”
Cayde looks up at me, his green eyes darkening. “I’d say that’s Jaxon’s business, and if he wants you to know, he’ll tell you.”
“Are you serious? Why the hell would Jaxon get into a fight?”
“I said it was his business.” Cayde glares at me. “I’m not really in the mood to punish you this morning, Athena, but I still can.”
“No, you can’t,” Dean interrupts. “She’s mine, remember?”
“She’s not. I said—”
I let out a long breath, standing up so fast that I almost knock my chair over. “Oh, shut the fuck up, both of you! I’m not yours, Dean, not as long as Cayde doesn’t concede. So just fucking eat your breakfast, since clearly, you don’t even care about your friend!”
I rush out of the house, hoping to catch up to Jaxon before he leaves, but his bike is already gone. A few minutes later, the other two guys push past me, Dean heading for his Maserati. “Come on, Cayde,” he says, ignoring me. “I’ll give you a ride.”
There’s not a doubt in my mind that they’ll come up with some kind of punishment for me later, but right now, I don’t care. I’m worried about Jaxon, and that sticks in my mind as I check the mailbox, pulling out the envelopes addressed to the guys, and walking back inside to set them on the entryway table. I’m about to turn around and leave when I see one sticking out that doesn’t have a home or return address on it, just something scrawled across the front.
My heart drops when I pull it out and see what it is. My name, in messy ballpoint pen.
Athena.
With trembling fingers, I rip the envelope open, pulling out a single sheet of lined paper. There are only a few lines in that same messy handwriting, but they make my heart stop in my chest for a moment.
Get out, little pet.
Get out before you regret it.
The devil’s coming, and he loves a good sacrifice.
I drop the paper as if it burned me, my hands suddenly shaking so hard that I can’t even hold onto it. Whoever sent it knows my name, knows what they call me here—sacrifice, pet. But that’s not the worst part. I look down at the paper on the floor, and I see the same word jumping out at me, over and over again.
Devil.
Devil.
Devil.
The Devil’s Sons. The enforcers for the founding families. The gang that my father belonged to.
The gang that he ratted on.