Page 71 of Wicked Court

“Returning you to campus, as promised,” I mutter, my hands steady on her arm despite the thundering pulse in my veins.

I’ve successfully navigated Elara through Thornhaven’s first floor, otherwise known as the Initiate’s Playhouse. Not one of them turned their head towards us.

Kaspian, with Wilder by his side, has violently cemented that the four of us are never to be disturbed, especially while entertaining at home.

The thought of these freshmen or sophomores noticing Elara, even with just a curious quirk of an eyebrow, sends my vision into the black.

Potential members of the Court are rotten, spoiled souls, indulging in females like 5-star courses, rolling in seven-figure bank accounts and attending more vile, black-market auctions and events than I have the brain span to describe.

These current initiates, with all their flies down, are our future leaders, our corporate giants, our flagrant fuck you to democracy.

It’s been happening for centuries, yet it never ceases to amaze me just how much power is given to pasty, weak-chinned, rancid rich boys.

We trek further away, where the wrought-iron gates stand like sentinels, their arrowheads reaching out like fingers ready to snatch Elara away from me.

It’s here, far from prying eyes, that I finally remove the hood, her hair cascading around her shoulders, her amber eyes reflecting the wildness of a cat.

“Better?” I ask, my voice betraying nothing of the storm raging inside me.

“Much.”

She blinks, her vision adjusting, unaware of how the sight of her fuels the fire within me.

“Does Sasha have to sign for me?” she asks.

I pause, staring at Elara with confusion.

Her forehead smooths, and she allows a quick smile. “You’re saying you’re taking me back to the dorms like I’m a package to be returned.”

“Oh.” I hold her by the elbow again and start forward in the direction of the steep, rocky incline that skirts the manor’s outer boundaries. “No, I don’t mean it like that.”

I just need to get you out of here before the initiates notice you.

Loose stones and hidden roots make the descent treacherous, requiring my unwavering focus to guide Elara’s steps, my hand firm on her arm.

She stumbles over the hem of her cloak and I swoop in to catch her before she crushes her skull on a jagged rock.

“Oh my—!” Elara clutches onto my shoulders like I’m the ledge keeping her from descending into Hell. “Wow, you’re quick on the reflexes, Axe.”

The warmth that follows my name, said with her voice, is like a large swallow of whiskey—heat, fire, pleasure.

“I do this all the time,” I manage to say.

Oh, yeah. Great one, Axe. Maybe next time you can tell her you do good at good things.

Elara doesn’t seem to mind my dumb response. She smiles, closed-mouthed but genuine, her hands squeezing my shoulders.

If I let myself, I could happily be encased in amber for eternity.

She blinks against my stare. “Um. You can let me go now.”

“Shit,” I mumble, righting her, then resuming my gentlemanly hold on her elbow.

“Is there any possibility I can take off this robe?” she asks.

“No.”

Her lips tense at my blunt denial, but she doesn’t argue. We’ve made clear she’s to obey if she wants to get through us unscathed, but now it’s just me.

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