Page 36 of Unhinged Obsession

I swallow hard, letting go of his hand to push up and kiss Elijah with such urgency that I’m not surprised when he groans and lifts me off the ground to continue the kiss.

When our lips part and my feet are finally on the ground, he says, “I know after everything you’ve been through, you have no reason to trust me.” Elijah looks to the side, like thinking about my time stuck with Onyx Dominion still makes him feel guilty.

“I do trust you, Elijah,” I say, and I want to tell him that he’s my most favorite person in the entire world and that trusting him has never been a problem for me.

My very best friend, and now lover, brings my hand up to his mouth and brushes my knuckles across his cheek, turning my hand to press my palm against his face. The thought that books into my head almost makes me giggle, but I hold it together because now is most definitely not the time.

Elijah Moretti, certified grump, has a love language, and it’s a hundred percent physical touch. Despite the fact that he’s spent most of his life trying to convince everyone around him that he decidedly does not like to be touched. Then my chest fills with warmth when another thought pops into my mind, shoving the other one to second place. Elijah really does not like to be touched by other people, but he craves the feel of my hands on him. Even in the middle of the night, if I rolled away from him in my sleep, he wasn’t having it. I woke up multiple times with him not only pulling me toward him, but placing my hands on his chest or neck.

“We’re in this together, I promise it’ll be okay,” Elijah tells me, and his voice is so earnest, so truthful.

I believe him, so I take his hand and let him lead the way.

BLAIR

CHAPTER EIGHTEEN

The knot in my stomach has been tightening since the moment I put this stupid pink dress on for the Choosing Ceremony. Under any other circumstances, I’d say it was pretty, and that because of the way it hugs my silhouette, Elijah will probably love it.

The rabid butterflies in my stomach are so painful that I’m half-convinced I’ll be sick before the ceremony even begins. I’ve spent the entire time I’ve been getting ready reminding myself that our plan will work because it has to.

They could decide our attempt to manipulate the Choosing deserves punishment and send me back to Onyx Dominion. They could take one look at the way Elijah and I have openly defied them and choose the outcome most likely to hurt us both, simply because men like the Elders have always valued obedience more than fairness.

Truthfully, they value their money and power above all else. I can only think that my father and Bradford’s father had something to gain by putting us together. I’d never say I’m happy to watch someone bleed to death, but I will say that it couldn’t have happened to a better person.

I force myself to draw in a slow breath, holding it until the pressure in my chest begins to ease before releasing it just as carefully. I have to be super careful with getting worked up tonight, because even if my father thinks I exaggerate it to get out of things, my asthma truly does flare up when I’m stressed out. And right now? I’m wound so tight I feel like I could snap in half.

Whatever happens tonight, I’ll find a way through it because I don’t have another choice. I survived Onyx Dominion when they did everything they could to convince me I was powerless, and I survived coming back to a campus where I thought I was going to have to fight every threat on my own. If the Society thinks one ceremony is enough to break me after everything I’ve already endured, they’ve underestimated me yet again.

I put on another layer of lipstick that the society set with my dress and then stick it in the hidden pocket. My lip print is meant to mark my Saint's neck as a way to solidify our union. I look at the other girls standing near me, and they all look as nervous as I do. I recognize most of them, but I’ve been so preoccupied with…not getting snuffed out by a cult.

Suddenly, the heavy velvet curtains pull apart, and the cathedral basement is revealed before us in a wash of candlelight and shadow. Candle flames line the old stone walls and circle the altar. Members of the Black Crown Society fill every pew, dressed in dark formal clothing as they watch us enter in identical pink floor-length gowns. I never thought to ask who would be here tonight, but I see my mother in the crowd, and she looks away when we make eye contact. I think I assumed it would only be us, the Saints and the Elders.

But this is even better, because now we have witnesses for what’s about to go down.

At the foot of the altar, the Saints stand shoulder to shoulder in long black ceremonial robes, their faces hidden behind their usual masks.I search the line without moving my head, looking for the broad set of Elijah’s shoulders or the slight angle he holds his body at whenever he’s irritated.

The uncertainty of how tonight will end makes me want to search harder for Elijah, but every Saint has been trained to stand with the same rigid posture, hands folded neatly at his waist and shoulders squared at an identical angle. Even their breathing appears controlled, as though the Society drilled every trace of individuality out of them for this exact moment. Call me a conspiracy theorist, but I truly think it’s so none of us Chosen Ones could find comfort in knowing which man waited behind which mask.

I understand the purpose immediately, and irritation at that knowledge flickers beneath my fear. The rules have always been the same for women like me in this world run by men who have no reason to have as much power as they do, other than that their fathers and grandfathers before them passed it down. We’re supposed to look pretty, remain still, and keep quiet while someone else decides what happens to us. I would roll my eyes if I weren’t fairly certain an Elder would find a way to punish me for that too. I need to keep my composure for as long as I possibly can because I don’t want to be the reason this doesn’t work.

Noah, Benjamin, and Paris are noticeably missing, but I know they’re close by, ready to enact plan B if something goes awry.

An Elder begins walking past us Chosen Ones with his hands clasped behind his back. The measured click of his polished shoes echoes through the basement as he studies each girl in turn, as though he’s inspecting something the Society intends to purchase rather than preparing to bind people together for the rest of their lives. My fingers itch to gather the fabric of my gown and give myself something to hold onto, but I keep them relaxed at my sides because I already know what men like him see when a woman shows fear. Weakness becomes another reason to control her, and I refuse to give them one more weapon to use against me.

When the Elder reaches the first woman, his voice carries clearly through the cathedral. “Miss Caroline Ashford.”

A Saint steps away from the line and lowers himself onto one knee before her, bowing his masked head while Caroline stares straight ahead with a carefully empty expression. The Elder continues to Evelyn Brooks, then Juliette Harrington, and each name is answered by another masked man moving forward to kneel before the woman chosen for him. The ceremony unfolds with such practiced precision that most people would assume we’d rehearsed this over and over. The Elder draws closer to where I stand in the middle of the line.

I tell myself not to look for any sign from Elijah that we’ve got this, and it’s going to be okay, but I really need one right now. The closer the Elder comes to me, the harder my heart pounds.

The Elder stops in front of me. “Miss Blair Winthrop.”

For the briefest moment, I close my eyes and make a wish that everything from this point on will be a blur, and I won’t let myself get worked up over whatever happens. Once the wish is let out into the universe, I let my hand brush the hidden pocket on my dress where I stashed my inhaler. Just to ensure myself that it’s within reach.

When the signal is given to a Saint, the one I’m supposed to be matched with, a different one steps away from the line and walks directly toward me with a confidence that feels nothing like the obedient movements of the men before him. He lowers himself onto one knee, bowing his masked head at my feet, and the instant he does, a murmur moves through the cathedral.

I don’t dare turn my head, but I watch the Elders from the corner of my eye and see their surprise before they have the chance to hide it. One glances toward the empty space in the line, another looks sharply at the man kneeling before me, and the Elder closest to us stiffens as though the ceremony has just slipped beyond his control.