Page 98 of Wicked Court

The master of ceremonies, dressed in an all-black tailored suit and an expressionless white mask, announces, “You may enter, gentlemen,” marking the beginning of the third evening of Selection.

I hate this night, despise it with a ferocity that tightens my chest. Yet as I sweep my gaze across the rows of submissive figures, I can’t stop remembering my own Selection two years ago.

It’s an addictive game of choosing however many girls you want and what you want them to do, one that plays at the edge of villainy, teasing out one’s most depraved instincts.

Recently, the rows include men, with a few peppered in throughout this evening. For an exclusively male secret society, I’d consider it progressive, though the Sovereigns abhor change about as much as I loathe supervising these rutting, over-eager initiates.

The door at the far end of the room opens, and our fresh set of initiates enters. One boy stumbles slightly on his robe, his vulnerability broadcasting a warning, and for a moment, I’m tempted to shoot him.

He doesn’t have it in him to complete the trials and undergo the kind of tribulations we did.

This is why only four of us remain as current members of the Court, this ancient and brutal society, out of the initial thirty who were chosen from our graduation class. And the class before that. And all classes going back twenty years.

Where they are now, dead or alive, I couldn’t say. TFU loses students the way one can lose a kitten in the wild.

However, my benevolent impulse to put him out of his misery is soured tonight, tainted by the partial victory mocking me from my pocket—the ruby Heart, only half complete. Its jagged edges press into my thigh, a constant reminder of my fuck up. How could I have failed to foresee that it might not be whole after over two centuries? How could such a critical detail have eluded me?

“Nightshade?” The First Sovereign’s voice cuts through the fog of my brooding, sharp and expecting behind me. “Are you partaking in the Selection tonight? I must have missed you during the first two nights.”

“Merely considering my options,” I lie smoothly, turning and offering a sardonic smile that doesn’t reach my eyes.

I have no interest in the Sovereigns’ mind games tonight, either.

“Be sure you do,” he warns, his gaze no less piercing behind his porcelain mask. His robe is bright red, lined with gold, and smelling like old blood. “We expect great things from you, and you will gain great things in return.”

They always expect the absolute limit, don’t they? Great things, grand sacrifices, undying loyalty.

I bow my head in mock deference, letting the shadows from the domed ceiling above cloak my expression.

If only they knew that right now, I’d trade all their expectations for the chance to shatter the chains of this cursed membership.

“Of course,” I murmur, my voice edged with a bitterness I can’t quite conceal.

“I’d like you to present your progress with the Wraithwood girl and the ruby to us later tonight, after you enjoy the type of rewards we offer,” the Sovereign replies before moving beside me to observe the initiates lining up below. “Part of our benefit is the privilege of choosing one for yourself before the initiates do. By dawdling up here, you’re risking receiving the leftovers. Don’t let that be your last kind of enjoyment.”

My jaw sets, determination hardening my resolve. The last appointment I want to make this evening is standing before them in their chamber and informing them of the broken shard in my pocket.

Let them wait. Let them wonder.

“Do not disappoint us,” the Sovereign says, as if reading my mind.

It’s a final warning before he eases away from the banister and disappears down the hallway into their private, heavily secure wing.

They probably have their own line of co-eds waiting, those old farts.

A genuine smile lifts the corners of my lips. I sound just like Wilder.

With one last glance at the blindfolded innocents, I turn on my heel, surrendering to the chaos that beckons from below rather than face a trifecta of ravenous, grueling Sovereigns up here.

I risk subjecting Axe to another monstrous carving on his body because of my failure. I have to find the other half before I officially face them.

I’m so consumed by thoughts of its missing piece and the supposed power the Sovereigns believe it holds (more rituals, more blood, always a sacrifice), that I almost miss her.

Almost.

There, in the sea of anticipation, kneels Elara Wraithwood, her hair a dead giveaway.

My heart stutters, jolting possessive fury through my veins.

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