The Ritual: A Dark College Romance

DEVOTION

SOPHOMORE YEAR AT BARRINGTON UNIVERSITY

T HE RAIN FALLS from the sky, soaking my clothes and making them stick to my skin. I kneel in the middle of the ring. Water mixed with my blood swirls on the ground around me.

I take a second to catch my breath and regain a little bit of strength because the rain makes it harder to connect. My opponent stands opposite me with his fisted hands up, covering his face while he bounces from foot to foot like he’s a fighter getting paid millions to show off to the world for a pay-per-view fight.

I guess, in a way, it is a show. Just not televised. And there is no payout. Your reward is you get to keep breathing.

“Get up!” he yells at me. “Get the fuck up, Ryat!”

Smiling, I make my way to my feet and drop my hands to my sides, letting him think he has me. As if I’m that fucking weak not to fight back.

He charges me, and I step to my left at the last second as he drops his shoulder. I kick my leg out, tripping him. He lands on his face, sliding in the puddle of water, and the crowd hollers.

“Tell me, Jacob. Just how bad do you want to die?” I ask and hear the others laugh at my question.

An audience is always needed. Your fellow brothers must witness your devotion. Otherwise, it doesn’t exist.

He gets to his feet and spins around to face me. Growling, he shows me his teeth before charging me again. This time, I don’t move out of the way. Instead, I meet him head-on with my fist. The blow knocks him back, and blood flies from his mouth. My knuckles split from the force.

Lifting my hand to my mouth, I lick the blood and rain off them. “Tastes like victory,” I mock.

Wiping the blood from his busted face, he stumbles, eyes blinking rapidly. I clocked him pretty good. “You …” he chokes out. “You …”

“Ryat,” I remind him of my name since he seems to have forgotten.

He charges me once again, this time much slower than the last. Sidestepping him, I lift my arm and let him run into it. My forearm hits his Adam’s apple, knocking him off his feet and flat on his back.

He rolls over onto his side, coughing and grabbing at his throat. I take the chance and kick him in the face and blood gushes from his now broken nose.

I fall to my knees, straddling him. My hands wrap around his throat, cutting off his air.

His hands slap my arms, feet kick, and hips buck underneath me, but he doesn’t have a chance.

As my grip tightens, his eyes bulge. “You will not beat me,” I growl.

When a Lord fights, he fights to the end. There can only be one winner. Only one left standing. And I refuse to be anything but.