Page 99 of Wicked Court

What the fuck?

She shouldn’t be here.

She’s not one of them.

“Elara.”

Her name is fire on my breath, barely audible, but swooping through the foyer with savage precision.

How dare they include her?

She. Is. Mine.

I go rigid at the vow torpedoing through my mind.

As the speaker’s voice drones on into hallowed rules of submission and expectation, I descend the stairs, each step a hammer blow.

The speaker goes quiet, his masked face turning toward me, along with all the others.

Elara’s head tilts ever so slightly at the sound of my footsteps, as if she hears the whisper of her name between the slams, feels the heat of my glare.

But no, she can’t see me—none of them can. It’s the one rule of Selection: anonymous until chosen.

“How interesting.”

I hear the Third Sovereign’s voice murmur his observation above me.

I ignore the lupine voice. My eyes latch onto Elara. Her breasts rise with each hurried breath, her blindfold shrouding her eyes from the truth of her surroundings.

What the FUCK is she doing here?

Her hands tremble where they rest on her knees, but still she sits on her haunches with a regal air, pretending she’s not terrified out of her damned mind.

Oh, butterfly. Why must you get yourself ensnared in such webs?

“Nightshade, are you laying claim?”

I can sense the Third Sovereign’s smugness in the question, his assumed control over me, the way he relishes in my discomfort.

Did he orchestrate this?

I won’t give him the satisfaction of seeing me unravel. Instead, I look up and let a slow, calculated smile bare my teeth.

When I notice the Silent Sovereign next to him, a glimmer of surprise quirks across my lips, though I quickly school it.

“Just appreciating the selection presented before us,” I say, each word deliberate.

“Proceed then,” comes the dismissive response.

My eyes never leave Elara as I take a step closer until my shadow falls over her.

She may not yet recognize my voice, as detached and empty as it becomes whenever I speak to the Sovereigns.

Elara shivers, and the sound of her quick breaths is nearly drowned out by the waves of anticipatory laughter drifting from the initiates. It’s a reminder of an easier path, one where I could lose myself in hedonistic distractions for one night.

I pause when an initiate boldly steps forward. His hand extends toward Elara, fingers curling in anticipation. Blindfolded, she remains oblivious to the peril lurking inches from her face.

I seethe, my voice dripping with venom, “She’s not for you.”

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