Page 19 of Our Covenant

“It’s your last birthday as a nobody.” His calculated words are meant to reward me with another promise, but fail. “Your next will be celebrated with feasts and a proper coven celebration.”

I’d argue that it’s highly unlikely that I will live to see my next birthday, but agreeing with him means he’ll leave sooner. “The cake better be good.”

He hums and it’s a sound between amusement and pity. I can feel his eyes trailing down my backside, the slither of perversion along my spine to my ass. With clothing clutched in hand, I turn around and drop my towel. Surprise then anger flash in his eyes. I smirk, shimmy my sweatpants up to my hips, then pull the cropped tank top over my head.

The man hates to be caught off guard—a reminder that he isn’t always the most cunning creature in the room. What he hates more is being teased with what he knows he’ll never have. But for someone to not only deny his rare affection, but show him that even invincibility and immortality won’t satisfy his every craving? Devastating indignation.

“I’m assuming since you’ve chosen to bait me, you haven’t infiltrated the legacies?” His brow slumps, hooding his deadpan eyes.

“Do you want it done or done right?” I’m far too smug tonight, but my earlier triumph and determination to not allow his presence to ruin my birthday are giving me perceived superiority.

I gather my hair into a scrunchie at the top of my head, letting the rogue ringlets fall to the back of my neck. His attention drifts to the one just behind my right ear and he takes damning steps across the room until he’s standing over me.

My mother used to spend hours curling my hair for my birthday parties. Not for the kids I’d invited from school or the neighborhood. Not for pictures, presents, or cake. But to look presentable for him. Up to my sixteenth birthday—when it became too obvious I’d started to become a woman—she would dress and primp me to be his living doll. Staring up at him now, I’m taken back to the first time he showed up after the children had all gone home and the wrapping paper still littered our kitchen table.

Seeing the same haunting and vicious look in his eyes, I feel like I’m four years old again. Except this time, my mother isn’t here for me to cling to as he stares down at me like my soul is on display for him to read. I hold myself steady, refusing to flinch as two of his fingers weave around the loose curl and tug gently before letting it go.

“And when did you decide that your plan is the correct way to go about the new world order?” he whispers far too close.

His hand takes hold of my bicep and squeezes, hard. I refuse to acknowledge the pinching pain even as his grip tightens until I can feel the blunt bite of his short fingernails digging into my flesh. He never breaks skin. But he’s a master at knowing the difference between inconspicuous and suspicious bruises.

“Your patience is thinner than mine. Your plan deserves to be done with care, and rushing into any part of it could leave room for missteps.” I’m feeding into his ego, and we both know it, but he releases me, nonetheless.

“Your forbearance, loyalty, and . . .” He pauses, taking a moment to emphasize his final point. “. . . tenacity have always been your most admirable qualities.”

What he wants to say is that I’ve always been a thorn in his side. But I’ve been firmly embedded between his ribs for the last twenty years, and only he would see a constant source of discomfort as a sign of fealty.

“I’ll be in touch,” he says, walking around me to the bedroom door and stopping before opening it. “I left you a gift. Use it well.”

I look over to my bed. Perched on top of my pillows is a dark blue box with silver ribbon tied around it. When I turn around to give him my obligatory gratitude, he’s gone. It leaves me with a chill and unease in my stomach.

10

ASHER

Maddox paces the antique Persian rug in the manor’s library, refusing to speak until we’re all here. Leaning against the barren fireplace, Thorne watches him, and I wonder if he’s also lost count of how many times Mads has glanced at the door for Fox.

The one time Fox goes out for a string of errands—or so he claims—and Maddox is struggling with a dire emergency.

He’s not injured, though he does seem to be suffering from some sort of psychotic break. While it’s not a new occurrence for him, we’re all well aware of his triggers, and typically after a harvest ritual, Mads is easily upset. It’s the severity that I have to gauge.

Personally, I believe we all deserve a good ol’ mental breakdown every now and then—keeps us humble. Knowing that we possess more power than the other men on Earth combined can give you a big head, despite the rules of our existence. The universe has its ways of grounding us.

We’ve all suffered a taste of cosmic homeostasis. If we use our power for personal gain, cheeky misfortunes follow to muck our plans up. A lesson that wasn’t passed down from our fathers. We had to learn it on our own. But Maddox doesn’t look like his dissertation fell victim to some kind of computer virus after using magic to complete it. Perhaps it’s something more substantial, like the time Thorne set fire to the dean of admission’s car at our prep academy as a prank. The only proof came in the form of video from a camera that hadn’t worked in months pointing directly at him as he fled the scene. Lucky for him—and his three compliant accomplices—Bishops’ pockets never empty.

No, this panic feels worse than a spell or charm backfiring. Maddox’s furrowed brow is shiny with sweat but his face is pale. When he called me hyperventilating, I was on my way to a study session. My group is going to be pissed, but legacy duties come before all else. When we need each other, the rest come running. Simple as that.

“Come on, Mads,” Thorne interrupts Mads’s pacing. “Just tell us and fill Fox in when he gets here.”

“No,” Maddox bellows, his face tense and eyes filled with fear or madness—I can’t tell which would be less concerning at the moment. “All four of us need to be here. Safe.”

He clutches at the collar of his T-shirt before rushing over to the small waste bin next to the oversized, solid oak desk that none of us have ever claimed. He wretches and heaves into it, and the worry that was starting to invade my thoughts is in overdrive.

“What the fuck?” Fox comes through the door, his motorcycle helmet under one arm and a canvas bag hanging from the other. “What did I miss?”

“Now that you’re here, we’ll all find out together.” Thorne pushes off the wall finally and crosses to one of the leather sofas in the middle of the room.

Maddox wipes his mouth with his sleeve and takes out his phone to show us a photo in a text thread. We crowd around to take in the source of his sudden insanity. It’s a picture of a woman—pretty but she’s nothing to have a meltdown over. Thorne reaches out and takes the device from Maddox and brings it so close to his face, I swear his nose smashes into it.