Page 92 of Decimation

He’s been watching my blueprint unfold. Every line I drew in secret, he’s evidently been tracing with his finger.

He stops right in front of me. “I am not so stupid as everyone else. I am not blinded by pity for a ruined man, or by fear of your authority. I see you, and I will support you.”

An ally? In this pit of vipers? If I was a fool, I’d convince myself that that is all he is. A friend, an ally, but he’s not finished.

“I will support you,” he repeats, his eyes like flint. “I will give you my voice, my influence, every scrap of leverage I’ve spent my life accumulating in the shadows of this place. But I will not do it if you commit the same offences he has done. You are about to stage a revolution based on the premise that your brother is unfit to rule because he was a reckless, passionate fool who brought us to the brink of ruin. And what do you do? You install the exact same flaw at the heart of your own regime before it even begins. The instrument of your family’s greatest humiliation, of Konstantine’s utter destruction is back in this house, even if she’s wearing a different face. Get rid of her. Cut out the weakness. Now, before she metastasizes.”

I stare back at him. I see the brutal, elegant logic of it. It’s the same logic I would have used a year ago, before I knew the feel of her hand on my chest. He is asking me to trade her life for his loyalty. A human sacrifice on the altar of my ambition. The study, with all its heavy, masculine solidity, feels like it’s closing in on me.

And then, the door opens.

A new presence fills the frame, and the air literally shifts in pressure. Konstantine. He doesn’t knock; he never does. He just appears, like a walking slab of granite in a tailored suit. Behind him Zayn wheels in, his muscular frame imposing even in the confines of the chair.

“Gentlemen,” Konstantine says, his voice a low, measured baritone. It’s a statement, not a greeting. “Are we ready for today’s business?”

The spell shatters. Charles takes a smooth, unhurried step back and the predator’s posture instantly melts away, leaving only the efficient Chapter Lord behind.

I am left standing in the wreckage of the last ten seconds, my mind reeling, my world balanced on a knife’s edge.

I still say nothing. I can’t. If I open my mouth, I don’t know what will come out. So I just give a short, sharp nod. A dismissal of the previous conversation, a concession to the present moment.

Konstantine walks into the room, a leather portfolio tucked under his arm and takes his customary seat in the high-backed chair opposite my desk. He settles into it, opens the portfolio and begins arranging the day’s documents with a quiet, efficient rustle of paper, utterly confident.

Zayn positions himself near the window, his presence a silent, watchful force.

And that’s when I see it. My brother is sharp, is rational. His eyes, which meet mine for a fleeting, electric second as he glances up from his papers, are clear and focused. They hold none of the fog of madness, none of the internal horror. They are the eyes of the man I grew up with, the man I followed into hell.

They are cunning, competent, and they are watching me.

Today, my brother is sane. Today, my brother is competent. Today, my brother is a rival who can actually fight back.

The clock isn’t just ticking. It’s a drumbeat now, a frantic, percussive rhythm in my blood. The window is closing. My brother is awake, and Charles has me by the very throat.

“The first item on the agenda is…” Zayn begins, his voice droning with a horribly normal cadence.

I move to my desk, my legs feeling like they belong to a stranger and I take my seat. With all the strength I can muster, I play my part, I play the perfect brother. The perfect spare.

We’ve been sitting here for hours, all playing our parts but the moment Zayn and Charles leave, all the pretence stops.

The mask doesn’t slip; it evaporates as if it never existed.

“Where is she?”

I’m standing by the window, my back to him, a dark silhouette against the bruised twilight sky. I don’t turn around. I just shake my head in a slow, infuriating pendulum of dismissal.

“Forget the bitch, Konstantine.” I say as bluntly as I can. “For once in your pathetic existence, you’re doing what you were born to do. For the first time in forever, you are actually performing your duties as Grand Master the way you should. The way our father would have wanted. Don’t throw it all away for a nice cunt.”

“Do not tell me what to do,” he snarls, getting to his feet. “I am Grand Master. Not you.”

I finally turn, and my own mask is gone, replaced by a sneer that could curdle milk.

“You wear the ring,” I say, my voice quiet and deadly. “You sit in the chair but we both know the truth, don’t we, brother? That most days your brain is so addled you can’t even wipe your own arse, let alone run the entire Brethren.”

I push myself off the windowsill and move towards the drinks cabinet, grabbing a bottle and pouring a drink because God knows I need one.

“You will listen to me,” he snaps, grabbing me by the scruff of my neck in show pretence at dominance. “You are on my council, by my grace. You live and breathe, by my grace. You will do as I command.”

I don’t struggle, I don’t try to break free. I just look at him, my head tilted back against the wall and a slow, predatory smile spreads across my lips.