The crack of the whip sounding in the small room was all it had taken before Răzvan burst into tears, knowing with a sense of dread in his gut what would come next.

He hated to cry, showing just how weak he was—he hated the way the professor snarled and snapped at him when he did, but he had never been able to control it, even when he desperately wanted to.

Even now as he tried to shove his fist into his mouth to muffle the sounds that left him, it was too late. The professor’s gaze swung in his direction, narrowing before he dropped his weapon of choice. The boy he’d been punishing dropped to the floor in a heap of exhaustion and relief.

He was spared, if only for a moment.

Răzvan was small for his age with a head full of wavy brown hair. He didn’t look like the other boys who had been here just as long as he had.

Their faces were weathered, even as young as they all were.

It was the crying, he thought, that made him a baby still.

He still looked every bit the cherub faced child he’d been when he was first dumped on the front steps of this place that cold winter night more than a year ago.

He hated it.

He hated himself.

“Be silent,” the professor ordered between gritted teeth once he was mere inches away, so close that Răzvan could almost smell the peppery scent of him. “If you continue to wail, I’ll cut out your tongue.”

The idea should have frightened him silent, but it only made more tears sting the back of his eyes as more choked sobs caught in his throat.

The professor looked as if he were mere moments from striking him … until a textbook hit the floor to the left of them.

Fang.

One of Răzvan’s only friends in this place.

One of the only boys who didn’t attempt to use his weakness against him.

The professor and his minions might have been who they all feared, but they weren’t the only bullies in the school.

Though he was the youngest between the two of them, Fang had always been bolder than Răzvan and had become something of a protector when he needed one.

“Pick it up,” the professor demanded, his annoyance with Răzvan momentarily forgotten.

Fang, who had earned himself a bit of respect after biting a chunk of flesh out of a former guard’s neck—the reason he was called Fang in the first place—looked up at the professor with a swollen black eye and a split lip, defiant as ever.

But what he didn’t do was pick up the book he’d purposely dropped onto the floor.

Răzvan wished he was that fearless.

He wanted to stand up to their abusers the way Fang so often did, even when it meant pain for him. Yet as Fang was yanked from his desk, his punishment swift and severe, Răzvan didn’t move.

And he didn’t speak.

Blinking, Răzvan dragged himself out of the memory, scrubbing a hand down his face to rid himself of the thoughts that plagued him more often than he liked.

He tried not to think about that time in his life—back when he was weak and helpless and reliant on others to fight his battles for him.

Meek was the word the professor had always like to use to describe him—meek as the mice that scuttled constantly through the corridors of the orphanage.

Until his voice was taken.

Until he’d learned to fight back.

During those first few weeks, the guards had beat the shit out of him—his screams silent even to his own ears.

The first time, they had only broken his ribs, leaving him in excruciating pain for weeks until the injury healed.

He hadn’t been able to tell Fang or his other brothers about the abuse, not when he’d lost his voice.

The second time had been worse. He didn’t actually remember the beating itself, only the result of it when he’d woken up hardly able to breathe.

As he’d lain sprawled on the floor the third time, holding up a scrawny arm to ward off more hits, he’d been saved.

But not in the way he’d ever expected.

Someone else had been there that last night—someone who had taught him how to fight back.

Sometimes, when he closed his eyes at night, Răzvan could still see the desperation in Sebastian’s eyes as he’d tried to flee right behind them, then the haunting the realization that he wouldn’t be able to make it out.

If Răzvan could change one thing about his time at the orphanage, he wished he could have saved Sebastian.

But that was a lost dream.

Now, as he stared at his reflection in the foggy mirror after he stepped out of the shower, his hand went up to the scar on his throat.

It wasn’t a hideous mark, and only when he tilted his head back at a certain angle was it particularly noticeable, but he knew it was there.

Usually, when his thoughts wandered, dragging him back to the past, he always thought of the day the professor hurt him the most.

It was funny the way memories worked.

He could remember the beatings all too well, could even see the swinging fists and feet coming at him from every direction, but he no longer felt the phantom pain of them. Yet he still remembered with startling clarity the day he’d woken up and realized he would never speak again.

Not for the first time, he wondered what he would sound like now? That question always plagued him.

Back then, his voice had been high pitched like that of a child.

Would it have deepened with age?

Would it reflect the man he saw in the mirror now?

Did it really fucking matter?

What was done to him couldn’t be fixed, so there was no point in stewing on it.

Not even the doctors Nix had on his payroll could fix what was done to him.

To this day, Răzvan still didn’t know who the doctor was the professor had brought in to remove his vocal cords. He hadn’t even known a procedure like it was even possible, but he was living proof it was.

The professor hadn’t wanted him to cry any more or beg and whine because of his mistreatment.

He hadn’t wanted him to speak.

He’d gotten his wish, after all.

Scrubbing a scarred hand down his face, Răzvan yanked the towel from around his waist and headed back into his bedroom, dressing in his usual attire of jeans and a T-shirt.

Once he finished, he went over to his bed in the corner of the room and pulled the sheets back into place, yanking and tucking the corners until it was all smooth and even.

By the time he finished, it didn’t look as though the bed had ever been slept in.

Old habits died hard.

Normally, by now, he would have gone off to find Fang and spar with him in the converted gym on the second floor of the loft, but as he walked by the closed door of his brother’s room, he was reminded that Fang was gone.

Death was a needy mistress—it stalked them constantly.

He couldn’t count how many times they had evaded it over the years, but those they loved weren’t always so lucky.

There once had been five of them—five little orphans trying to survive in a place determined to break them—but only four had managed to escape.

It had been Sebastian’s loss that had inspired Răzvan and his brothers to do everything they could to ensure they would never be that weak again.

They trained with the Lotus Society—an organization of assassins Nix had recruited them into—which consisted of not just shaping their bodies, but also shaping their minds, ensuring any challenge put before them was not a problem.

After two years, they’d left and become freelancers, answering only to themselves and Nix.

In that time, they had put their skills to use and became the one thing that proved the most lucrative—thieves.

They’d become unstoppable.

They’d become arrogant.

Even Răzvan, who knew all good things came to an end, hadn’t believed they could ever be compromised again—not like they had back at the orphanage.

Until Aidra.

Until Răzvan had watched his best friend lose everything in a matter of seconds.

It had been a long time since he’d felt that helpless in the face of a problem, and seeing the pain on his brother’s face had made him wish he could have taken that agony away.

Since losing her, Fang had disappeared, leaving the loft where they all lived for somewhere he could be on his own and disappear into the bottom of a bottle.

There were days when Răzvan thought about dragging his ass back, and if he wanted to drink himself into a coma, he could do that here, where at least he’d be able to monitor him.

But Fang was stubborn and did what he wanted.

He wouldn’t be coming back until he was ready.

And they couldn’t do anything about it.

The loft was too quiet as Răzvan left his bedroom for the kitchen.

No matter how loud the television was, or the sheer amount of fucking noise Thanatos could keep up by himself, the silence of Fang’s absence was too audible.

He was just rounding the corner when he caught sight of Thanatos leaving Invictus’ bedroom, pulling a shirt down over his tattooed chest.

Thanatos and Invictus had a different sort of relationship—one that Răzvan didn’t completely understand, nor did he care to figure it out.

If it worked for them, it worked for him.

It was that simple.

Of the four of them, those two had always been the closest, sharing a bond that went back to their very first days at the orphanage. He hadn’t been the only one bullied for being smaller.

Thanatos had suffered too—his bullying made even worse because he had hair the color of gold that curled a bit too much.

People had a tendency to pick on what was different, and among all the dark-haired boys who had made up the orphanage, Thanatos had stood out.

He still retained his lankiness, though he’d added more than a hundred pounds of muscle. But where his skin used to be covered in bruises and welts and scars, he’d concealed them with dark ink.

He and Invictus had disappeared for a little more than a week years ago, and once they’d returned, there was hardly an inch of skin on Thanatos that wasn’t shaded in some way.

The artist had skillfully and almost lovingly brought the skeleton to life, the bones inked from his fingers, up his arms, and across his chest and back.

The work was extensive, and Răzvan was sure it had been really fucking painful when he had it done. Sometimes, when he moved just right, the tattoos seemed to be alive.

“Where’d you disappear to yesterday?” Thanatos asked as he walked into the kitchen behind him, immediately going for the jug of orange juice in the refrigerator.

The peppy bastard didn’t believe in coffee like the rest of mankind.

—The Hall.—

And thoughts of the place immediately conjured images of Winter in his head.

Winter.

He hadn’t seen her since California, but it had felt like no time at all had passed when he saw her the night before.

She’d been just as beautiful as the day he’d met her, maybe more so because she wasn’t as much of a mystery as she had been then

But her sudden presence in New York had come as a surprise because in the months he’d been talking to her since California, she had never mentioned she was coming.

Then again, she’d disappeared on him about a week ago, and he hadn’t heard from her until she walked into The Hall.

The thought shouldn’t have bothered him as much as it did.

He shouldn’t have been thinking of her like that at all. He wasn’t supposed to be interested because Nix had made it pointedly clear that she was off-limits.

Why? He didn’t know.

“While I couldn’t care less who you choose to spend your nights with,” Nix had said in that polished accent of his, “she’s not one you need to entertain.”

At the time, he hadn’t thought anything of it, or her, but that was before Aidra died.

Before Winter snared his attention.

He’d thought she’d only meant to pay her respects when she first reached out to him, and he’d been okay with that.

Until she’d texted him again.

WHY ARE YOUR EYES BLUE?

How the hell was he supposed to answer that question?

But he’d been baffled by her enough to try to give her an answer.

He hadn’t realized what she was doing until later—until he didn’t feel the weight of grief anymore.

Distracting him.

She asked questions he might have ignored before, but then, it was exactly what he needed.

Her curiosity had ultimately fed his own, and considering he didn’t care much about anyone outside those closest to him, even he was surprised at his curiosity about her.

But he’d yet to ask what he really wanted to know—why she worked for a man like The Kingmaker?

From what he knew about her, she wasn’t nearly jaded enough to do this and still be as sunny as she was.

“Anyone die?” Thanatos asked as he twisted off the top of the carton and poured the drink into his glass, drawing his attention back to him.

—No one has to die for it to be a good time, Vali.—

“Yeah, well, enjoy it for the both of us. Have you talked to Fang?”

—He’s alive.—

But that was about all he knew since he only ever managed to get a few words at a time from Fang.

“He’ll get through this,” Thanatos whispered as he came around the island. “We’ve suffered worse.”

That was the hope anyway.

Physical pain and emotional pain were vastly different, and oftentimes, the latter hurt the most.

“We’re going to one of Nicu’s spots tonight if you’re interested,” he threw out. “It’s boring as fuck, but you know, support and all that.”

When they robbed banks, they very rarely kept all the money for themselves. Invictus liked to visit churches and leave anonymous donations, but only to those he approved of.

Even Răzvan was a bit overdue for his, but he couldn’t tonight.

—I have plans.—

Thanatos frowned. “You never have plans.”

—Tonight, I do.—

And he had no intention of telling him what those plans were.