Page 45 of Wicked Court

I lead her to a secluded alcove lined with textbooks no longer in print but displayed like trophies, the stacks tall enough that no one should overhear us.

The first time I saw her here huddled in the corner with a book in hand, admiring these dusty tomes, Elara was a freshman and oblivious to her surroundings—and me spying on her.

When I took in the sight of her, all silky reddish waves and hearth-soaked eyes, I’d felt a stab of longing so fierce it physically hurt.

What is it like to carry beauty instead of the slash of scars?

How was it possible that she could find solace here when all I’ve ever known is an expensive cage?

“I know you’re looking for information on the Cimmerian Court,” I say bluntly, startling her.

Her eyes, which had been a liquid topaz before, harden.

“The what?” she drawls out, oozing boredom I’m positive she doesn’t feel.

I can practically hear the gears turning in that pretty head of hers as she weighs her options on whether ignorance or cleverness works best with me.

“You’re aware I don’t talk much,” I say. “And a sincere girl like you would realize I make up for it with what I observe. What people do when they think they’re not being watched. I know what you’ve been up to. Who you’ve spoken to, like Darcy and her envious theories about a secret society on campus.”

She blinks, righting herself after hearing what she likely did not expect me to say, then glares at my pants’ side pocket where the rectangular shape of my phone juts out.

And there it is. Elara is well aware I record and document everything I see.

For my memory’s sake. Not for blackmail. Usually.

“I’ve been where you are,” I continue. “Not knowing who your family is, wondering what kind of sordid history they hid from you and the worry of figuring it out when it’s too late.”

Elara works her lower jaw, her stare cutting to the side.

“I’m offering you a partnership,” I say. “We both want the same thing. The truth. I know the Heart’s provenance not only affects me, but your family as well. It’s a cursed thing, isn’t it? Taints everything it touches, right? Condemning us to live out generations of misery? Your brother’s death, my…” I trail off, glancing down and scrunching my brows, trying to remember the Devereaux legacy. I’d check my notes on my phone as a prompt, but I refuse to embarrass myself in front of her or endure the horror of her pity.

Her eyes widen with the realization that I’m having trouble recalling something, but she quickly schools her expression into that unreadable mask again.

I internally thank her for it. God knows I despise the questions that usually follow my internal struggle.

I get to the point with a heavy sigh. “I need to find it, too. It’s ... personal.”

She’s silent for a beat too long, and I internally panic.

“And why would I trust you?” she asks finally, her voice hard as the marble and stone around us, but there’s a spark in those beautiful eyes.

There it is—the chink in her armor that I’ve been waiting for.

I rake a hand through my hair. “You’re so suspicious of us, but what’s your endgame, Elara? Why go through so much trouble for a dusty old necklace? Yes, Kaspian told me,” I add when her lips curl at the word necklace. “You let that slip, probably because you have no idea what the fuck is going on. My brothers are blunt force trauma rather than subtle finesse. But you’re smarter than that.”

Her eyes darken, warning me to tread carefully.

“Think about it,” I say, sensing if I push any further, she’ll bolt. “I’ll give you tonight to consider my offer. After that...” I shrug. “There’s no telling what Cav will do. Force you live with us until they get the answers they want, probably. And you don’t want to be trapped in our basement. Believe me.”

Elara physically recoils like she can’t believe I’ve so calmly threatened her.

“Fine, Axe.” She hisses my name like a curse. “Then prove it by giving me an answer right now.”

I expected as much. I incline my head, waiting.

“Who are the Vultures?”

The name reverberates my bones, though offhand, I don’t know why. When someone mentions the Vultures, is it fear, respect, or hatred that pricks me?

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