Page 96 of Wicked Court

“Ready to go?” Sasha asks, snapping me back to reality as she comes up beside me and we fix our outfits.

Sasha looks amazing, choosing a black lace dress that clings tightly to her well-toned physique. The material shimmers under our ceiling’s lights.

“Definitely,” I nod in response, my gaze lingering on our mirror image.

Our contrasts are stark—her raven-dark hair and brown skin against my auburn waves and fair complexion; her wiry strength against my soft curves; her fearlessness versus my habitual caution.

I’m dressed in a tight, sleeveless black dress, starting at my collarbone and ending above my knees. I feel like I’m ready for a job interview, not an invite-only party, but it’s the only black dress I have other than the pleather one which has been … soiled.

Sasha’s wardrobe doesn’t fit me, and if I asked any of the other girls I’m friends with on the floor, they’ll wonder where the hell I’ve been and start asking questions.

The ruby. That damned ruby necklace Gram dropped into my hands at Maverick’s funeral started this all.

Recollections of its polished surface tarnished by a web of fractures that I thought was because of age sends a nauseous shudder into my stomach. Someone broke it, took half of it out of a creepy necklace and put the other half…?

“You’re so naturally pretty you make me want to barf. Let’s go.”

Sasha yanks my arm and pulls me out the door.

* * *

The purr of an engine slices through the ambient nightlife of campus, turning my head.

A sleek, black Bentley glides forward with effortless grace, its polished exterior gleaming under the muted glow of the cul-de-sac’s streetlights. Its dark windows are a bottomless black, reflecting a starless sky tonight.

When it comes to a smooth stop in front of our dorm, the silence that follows is almost palpable, broken only by the distant hum of conversation and the occasional rustle of leaves in the cool night breeze.

“Is that for us?”

My question is a mix of anticipation and doubt.

Sasha’s dark eyes spark at the sight of it in front of us. “Sure is. I told you this was going to be amazing. Come on.”

The door is pushed open with a soft click, revealing the plush interior. Buttery white leather beckons us inside, and I’m immediately assaulted by Wilder’s scent.

It’s not him. Jesus, Elara, coming across any kind of leather is not allowed to make you wet.

“Elara Wraithwood and Sasha Sterling?”

A man who looks to be in his late twenties bends low to stare at us from his seat. This is one of those luxury vehicles where two rows of seats face each other, creating an intimate space that adds to the air of exclusivity.

The man’s voice is crisp, his suit impeccable, yet there’s an edge to him I can’t quite place.

“That’s us,” I reply, letting Sasha go in first.

I slide into the seat beside her, our eyes meeting briefly before we both face the inscrutable man.

“Good evening,” he says, his manner professional but distant. He’s dressed in an all-black suit.

As the mystery man closes the door, sealing us within the Bentley’s elegant cocoon, he turns to us. His expression is as bland as the small packet of paper he hands to me.

I look at Sasha in confusion.

“Standard procedure,” he says in answer to my expression.

Sasha leans close, her voice low. “He’s right. It’s just to protect the residents of the manor we’re going to. They’re like … super private or something.”

“For a party?” My eyebrows express the rest of my dubiousness for me.

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