Chapter 6: Blood on the Pavement

The acrid smoke of the cordite and the nauseating odor of scattered sea water clung to Ben's nostrils, ghost of admonition of blood shed he had so nearly missed. Trembling fingers traced his own where the Raven's sword had rested on the nape of his neck, a souvenir of death that was chilling. He gazed out the window of the car, city lights a broken kaleidoscope, each flash a distorted mirror of the chaos his life had descended into.

He replayed it all in his head: Jack's remote mask of authority, the Raven's brutal jibes, and then Tim. Tim, taciturn watchman, the brother who'd appeared to live in a hyper-vigilant state, moving with an icy, deadly calm that'd left Ben stunned. The over-riding sense of thankfulness was an odd heat, a soft blooming on the relentless rain of fear. He'd underestimated Tim, thinking he was cold because he never spoke. Now he'd discover a guardian, a hidden steel behind his silent face.

His features in the colored glass were a stranger's, etched with fear and resolve. He was changing, evolving in ways he didn't yet comprehend, forged in the fire of survival. Max's veiled threats, the hints of a suppressed power, hummed in his head. He was greater than an omega, greater than a pawn in Jack's kill game. He was another person, a darker person, and he would be taught that truth at any expense.

The car roared through the iron gates, their hinges shrieking a discordant counterpoint to the oppressive stillness of the manor. Jack's house towered above, a monument to his control, a gilt cage to confine him. But Ben was aware, with a certainty that rooted itself deep in his bones, that even the strongest cages could break.

He followed Jack and Tim into the mansion, the stillness inside a welcome change from the pandemonium of shots. The air inside the mansion was charged with charged silence, betrayals and truths hanging heavy in the air.

Jack led them into his office, a sanctuary of burnished mahogany and leather-bound volumes. He poured himself a shot of whiskey, amber liquid shining in his crystal tumbler. "They're getting bolder and bolder," he snarled, his voice low and deadly. "They're playing with fire."

Tim leaned against the desk, a look of concern on his face. "They won't quit until they get what they're after."

"And what's that?"

Ben's voice was a whisper, a breath the heavy silence consumed.

Jack's icy, gleaming eyes flicked toward him. "Power. Control."

Ben's stomach twisted, the old familiar knot of fear constricting. He recognized that feeling, the crushing grip of another human being's will.

"We have to fight back," Tim said, his voice toneless, emotionless. "We can't let them do this to us."

Jack's jaw hardened, a quivering muscle in his cheek. "Agreed. We'll strike where it will hurt." He looked at Ben, and in his eyes gleamed a killer's intention. "You'll have your hand in it."

Ben's breath hung in abeyance. He understood the message: he was the offering, to be thrown to the Ravens. He glanced at Tim, seeking a moment of reassurance, but Tim's eyes were fixed on Jack, his face a stone mask.

"What must I do?" Ben demanded, his tone harsh though the quiver of terror that threatened to shatter him.

Jack's lips curled back in a thin, hard smile. "You'll be our bait."

Ben's blood ran cold. He was to be the bait, the sacrifice to lure the Ravens from their den. He wanted to scream, to rage, to flee. But he was bound, bound by the blood oath, the searing chains, body and soul.

He nodded, his voice barely a breath. "Okay."

Jack's smile widened, a killer's shine in his eyes. "Good. You're learning to be useful."

Ben's hands clenched, his nails digging deep into his palms. He was not going to be useful. He was going to survive.

He emerged from the office, his mind spinning with payback and freedom. He would make the most of this chance, play it for himself, and crush the grip Jack had on him.

He paced the vacant corridors, the beat of his footsteps one solitary counterpoint to the silence of the mansion. Alone, yet not powerless. He would forge his own path, hack his own way out of this golden cage.

He entered his bedroom, the excess of decor now a joke on his confinement. He gazed at the brand on his wrist, the second beat pounding against the skin of his arm, a brand of servitude that was intimidated. He touched the sharp edges, a glimmer of defiance that shone bright in his eyes. He would not let the mark define him. He would reinterpret the brand, claim it once again, a sign of strength, a testament to surviving. He would reclaim the mark, not Jack's but his.

He would destroy the scorching chains, the blood binding and the terror shackles. He would reclaim his life, bit by twisted bit, if it was going to cost him ripping it out of Jack's grasp. He would learn who he was and use it to survive.