ONE
TYSON
INITIATION
Loyalty
Freshman year at Barrington University
"As a Lord, you must prove that we can count on you. No matter the situation. No matter the cost." Lincoln paces in front of me and the other initiates. He's our leader, I suppose.
We're all required to live at the House of Lords for the next four years, and he runs the show. I've heard the rumors—that the HoL is like a fraternity on steroids. But no one really knows what happens inside that mansion, other than the legendary parties we throw. Only the Lords attending Barrington who are currently going through initiation know the truth of what we really do.
It's freshman year. Our first chance to show just how far we're willing to go to be the best.
"You will not be punished for your actions, only rewarded," Lincoln continues. "A Lord is willing to take a life without question." He comes to a stop and spreads his arms wide. "You will be given an assignment each year to demonstrate exactly how far you are willing to go for us." He crosses his arms over his chest. "Not all of you will make it, gentlemen. But those who succeed will know a life others can only dream of."
My father's voice echoes in my head. *Joining the Lords is not an option—it's an honor. And you want to honor the Crawfords, right, Son?*
"Yes, Father."
He has prepared me the best he could for this day. For this life. And I will do whatever it takes to be the son he raised me to be—ruthless.
"Tyson, you're up."
Lincoln's words snap my head up. I rise from the spot where I was kneeling and watch a guy enter the makeshift ring. He looks to be in his late thirties, towering over me by at least six inches with who knows how much reach advantage. He's wearing a hoodie, jeans, and black combat boots.
I reach up, yank my shirt over my head, and throw it aside. The fewer restrictions I have, the better. I'm wearing jeans too, but only sneakers. They won't help me in a fight. But technically, I'm not supposed to win. They want us to fail. It's their way of weeding out the weak as quickly as possible.
The guy shoves his hand into his back pocket and pulls out a pocketknife, flipping it open. I see dried blood on the blade. His eyes meet mine as he smiles, revealing crooked teeth.
"You're dead," he states.
The words make my heart race. Not with fear, but anticipation. This is what we're bred for. This is why they make us prove our worth. Not just anyone can be in this society. It only accepts the best of the best. And I am the fucking best at everything I do.
You have to be born into this world—your blood makes you a Lord—but they can remove you at any time. Some would kill for the chance to prove they can live up to their name.
I glance at Lincoln. He shakes his head, answering my silent question. The only way I'll get a knife is if I take his.
Challenge accepted.
The guy rushes me. I jump out of the way just in time, throwing my arms up to block, barely missing the blade he thrusts toward me. I snap my leg out, making contact with the side of his knee. He goes down but rolls away just as I try to stomp on him, my shoe missing his face.
He recovers quickly, jumping to his feet with the knife out in front of him again. He swings at my face, trying to cut me, but I duck and sidestep. The quicker I am, the better my odds. Keep him guessing my next move.
"Do your job, Clarence," Lincoln calls out to the guy, sounding bored. These men have been Lords for a long time. They should be able to take us down without thought.
I've got a split second to make a decision. It's not the best plan, but it's all I have.
I charge him, getting low enough to wrap my arms around his waist, and lift him off his feet. I feel a sharp pain in my back as he screams, but the adrenaline coursing through me overrides it.
The weight of his body pulls us both down, slamming him onto his back. It knocks the wind out of him. I seize the opportunity, clenching both fists, and hammer them into his face.
"Motherfucker," I grit out, feeling the skin on my knuckles split from the impact. But it doesn't stop me.
Fellow Lords are yelling for me to succeed. They will be up next. If I lose, it sets a tone. Right now, I represent all of us. I'm not fighting them; I'm fighting for them. For us as a team.
Blood splatters across my face, and my fists start slipping, coating his face and my sweaty hands in red. He fights back, or tries to, at least. His eyes start to swell shut, so he's fighting blind. I've got the advantage.
I slam my fist into his jaw, feeling a crack. My next swing hits high on his head, making my arm go numb for a brief second, so I switch hands, knocking his head to the opposite side. Getting to my shaky feet, I kick him, rolling him over onto his stomach. He's coughing up blood, his body starting to convulse. I yank him back over, fall to my knees again, and wrap my bloody hands around his throat, squeezing with the little strength I have left. Now is not the time to show off. It's time to finish what I started.
He doesn't even fight me.
An arm wraps around my neck from behind, restricting my air, and I'm yanked off the guy. I start kicking, my hands gripping the arm holding me in place.
"Calm down, Tyson," Lincoln says in my ear. "He's dead. You're done."
My body instantly relaxes in his hold, and he releases my neck. I fall to my knees, my bloody and busted hands slapping against the concrete floor. I'm having trouble catching my breath. Looking down, I notice blood dripping from my mouth. Did he get more hits in than I thought?
I cough, and more blood splatters across the concrete. The room starts to spin.
"Gavin." Lincoln calls out to our doctor, who is among the audience.
The last thing I see is the guy's knife on the floor, stained with my blood, before the darkness takes me.