Page 100 of Wicked Court

Time seems to freeze in place and then flicker back to life as the initiate recoils.

I can feel all their gazes on me. The two Sovereigns, the initiates, every fucking soul in this room, even the blind ones.

But none of that matters. Because when it comes to Elara, there is no choice, no chance.

“Continue,” I order the speaker, my voice a low growl.

He fumbles for composure before continuing on with his script, his voice melding into the background as I stand before Elara. Her breath halts for a moment at my proximity, and her fingers clench at the hem of her dress.

My hand gently cradles her chin. A soft gasp escapes her as I tilt her face up. Even beneath the blindfold, I can sense her wide-eyed surprise.

“Hello, butterfly,” I say in a low rumble only she can hear.

Recognition dawns in her posture, a sudden stiffening that’s visible even with her eyes obscured. I could almost see her mind racing behind that blindfold—confusion, trepidation, outrage—all warring for dominance within her.

Slowly, I remove my palm from her warmth and, as per tradition, place it lightly on top of her head, an action that signals my choice to all present.

A collective gasp echoes around the room. I haven’t Selected in years.

One swift movement removes her blindfold and our eyes clash—an amber gaze meeting cerulean iris—the world around us bleeding away.

Her pupils dilate at seeing me. I can almost sense the spike in her heartbeat. I imagine our pulses sync in this moment—thud-thud-thud.

Her cheeks flush, not with embarrassment, but with something akin to relief.

The foul taste of unsaid threats and future interrogations over why the hell she is here fills my mouth. My eyes never leave Elara. The coppery taste of blood makes me grimace—an unintentional bite of my tongue.

She watches me closely, so I lean in to whisper, that one breath shaking with rage, “Stay close to me.”

Her nod is almost imperceptible, but I see it all the same.

Drawing myself to full height, I take her arm to help her to her feet before turning our backs to the room.

I stop just short of dragging her out of there. I can’t afford to show any reaction to her presence other than a claiming, because then the Sovereigns would know she’s important to me. As important as the ruby, if not more.

They can’t have her.

We calmly move out of the foyer together, leaving behind the palpable shock and whispered speculation.

The sound of the door latching behind us echoes through the hallway, like a seal to another devil’s bargain I’ve formed with the Sovereigns.

I say nothing while I escort Elara to my bedroom. I’m so consumed by rage, I’m afraid to do more than walk. Of what I’ll do to her if I get both hands on her.

When I reach my room, I slam the door behind us and whirl. Elara jumps at both the sound and the vitriol leeching off me.

“Explain yourself,” I hiss.

I can’t fight off the need to punish her. My hands find her waist, fingers pressing through her dress and into skin, pulling her so close, there’s no space for secrets or lies.

We’re toe-to-toe, her breath mingling with mine, my anger an inferno searing her lips.

“How could you offer yourself to them?”

My words come out like bullets, each one loaded with betrayal and the agony of protection unappreciated.

The Cimmerian Court—my curse, my battlefield—is no place for her.

When Elara pales and turns her head from my fury, I latch onto her jaw. Look at me.

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