Page 9 of Tell Me You Like It

“Hey,” Wyn says. “Welcome.”

“Thanks,” I respond, my voice barely audible. “I’m Lux.”

“Oh, wow, that’s a unique name,” she says. “Don’t worry. If they catch us talking they’ll just come over and tell us to stop. They won’t kick us out.”

Bummer.Getting kicked out is the best-case scenario at this point.

Wyn lifts her perfectly manicured brows. “We saw you talking to Roman Rush a minute ago.”

Roman.So that’s his name.

“Yeah, I almost trampled his foot.”

“He’s one of the four Sacred Sons, and every girl in this room is after him,” she says.

Well, that explains the tsunami of dirty looks that came roaring at me a few minutes ago.

I scrunch my nose. “Not sure why they’re after him, but whatever. To each their own, I guess.”

Wyn smiles. “I mean, aside from his fuck-me face, he’s insanely rich. He owns this house, and he has more power at this school than the fucking Dean. So, yeah…”

Damn.

I’m not sure what to say to that, but thankfully, I’m saved from having to reply. A young guy in a suit walks to the center of the room, and thumps on the floor with a carved stick, re-creating the samethump, thump, thumpfrom before.

The silence in the room grows thicker, expectant.

“The Sacred Sons will now make their selections,” he intones, his deep voice echoing off the dark, wood-paneled walls. Excited chatter ripples like little waves throughout the room, breaking the spell of silence. No one says it explicitly, but I guess we can talk now.

“Oh, shit,” Bree squeaks. “It’s happening.”

I take a sip of my champagne and turn to Wyn. “What are they selecting?”

“They’ll each choose a consort for the upcoming academic year.” She spreads her hands, gesturing to the room. “That’s what this whole Preference Ceremony is.”

I blink. Did he just sayconsort?

What in the middle ages is happening here?

If they start sacrificing people, I’m leaving. Period.

I half-turn to Bree and pull a face, like,did you just hear what I just heard?But she doesn’t even see me. Her gaze is fixed on what’s happening with this guy thumping his stick, trying to bring everyone to attention. She’s always been really into this kind of thing. Cliques. Groups. Clubs. You name it, and if it’s considered cool, she wants to be a part of it.

I’ve clearly lost Bree, so I turn back to Wyn. “So what happens after they make their selections?” I practically gag on that last part, because you’d think we were talking about lobsters in a tank. Not actual people.

Wyn doesn’t have a chance to answer, though, because immediately after the guy makes that announcement, all the girls assemble themselves, gathering in the middle of the room. Wyn directs us to join as well, even though we’re not really a part of whatever this is.

The four Sacred Sons step up onto a wooden platform and stand in a line, shoulder to shoulder, hands clasped behind their backs. Masters of the universe. Kings of their domain.

Roman snags my attention first, and I can’t help but replay our last interaction in my head—the warmth of his breath brushing across my cheek, his hand squeezing my arm just a fraction too tight. I swallow, and suck in a long pull of perfumed air, trying to calm the anxiety pooling in my stomach.

Bree homes in on my discomfort. “What’s wrong, babe?”

I blow out a breath and drum up a reason, pulled from the plethora of my insecurities. “I don’t know, I guess I just feel out of place here.”

“Why?” Bree scoffs. “Because these people are rich? Who cares? You’re cooler than anyone here. You know, you really need to start that positive affirmation journal I gave you.”

Journals have never really been my thing. Why write my emotions down when I can just bottle them up inside, and wait for them to ferment? Drunk on my own pain. Sounds perfect. I doubt my therapist would agree, though. I can practically hear him in my mind.

---