Page 1 of Stormbreaker

1

My fiancé smells like feet.

Knox slings an arm around my neck and yanks me closer, causing me to trip. My hands slam into his chest to stop myself from falling, and I inhale another whiff of that sour smell.

I recognize it as the distinct residue of the boiled cabbage stew served in the tunnel markets running below the streets of New Manhattan. He must’ve paid a visit to the underground today. A shower would have been nice.

Knox doesn’t notice my stumble as he lifts his glass and bellows, “To our last night of freedom!”

He’s met with a resounding chorus of cheers before he tips his head back and takes a long pull of his drink.

With the wind howling outside, we stand fifty stories up, inside a sprawling apartment owned by Knox’s father, Trey Arden. The massive living room is lined with reinforced floor-to-ceiling windows and filled with creamy, ornate furniture and golden tables.

His mother permits only clear liquids, lest anything get stained. I’ll never forget the party Knox threw in ninth grade when someone had the bright idea of smuggling in a pilfered bottle of red-tinted cinnamon gin to pass around. The lid hadn’t been properly secured and . . . well, I don’t think I’ve ever heard Mrs. Arden scream that loud.

The remnants of that day have long since been cleared away, leaving off-white, brocade-silk-covered walls and crystal chandeliers dangling overhead, casting us in a soft yellow glow.

All the Fiama Society kids from our year are here, dressed in their most sparkling club attire, including short skirts and slashed shirts, showing off taut young bodies and miles of skin. High school is over, and we’re headed to university, ready to embark on the next chapter of our lives when we report to Amery Academy first thing tomorrow.

I’ve been anticipating this day for a very long time.

I watch my best friend, Trinity, across the room take a long gulp of her drink and toss her arms around her boyfriend’s neck before they go in for a sloppy kiss. They make out furiously, their bodies pressed together, fueled by the heated charge in the air and a little liquid encouragement.

My chest tightens. I’m not jealous. I’m thrilled Trin found someone who loves her the way Edward does. I want the world for her.

But as Bethany Fawkes sidles over, pressing herself to Knox’s other side, my gaze returns to Trinity and Edward, and I can’t help but want what they have, too.

Knox’s arm tightens around me before he thrusts his cup in my face. “Have a sip, Poet.”

I nearly gag on the potent fumes of moonshine brewed by the Hollows, New Manhattan’s underground citizens. It’s cheap as dirt and packs several punches. No thank you. My preferred poison doesn’t taste vaguely of paint thinner.

I knock his hand away as he leans in and presses his open mouth against my temple, almost like he’s eating my hair. His hot, stale breath sends a shiver creeping over my scalp. And not in the good way. Those days are long over.

“Stop,” I bite out as I attempt to shove out of his headlock.

Knox Arden. New Manhattan’s resident fuckboy. My betrothed.

Definitely not by choice.

Finally, I manage to extricate myself from his grasp, sacrificing the band around my ponytail. He’s handsome by all measures of the word. High cheekbones. A strong jaw. Tall with a narrow but stacked frame and platinum hair streaked with bright shocks of lilac.

His sleeveless white shirt clings to his chest, and his fair skin is slightly flushed. His black leather boots are heavily scuffed, no doubt purchased from a scavenger. New clothes are easy enough for families like ours to access, but there’s a certain cachet in “slumming it” with a rare and expensive scavenger treasure.

“Poet,” he whines as I fix my ponytail. Then I spin on my heel to walk away, shoulders set and head high. “Poet, come back! You’re being weird.”

Weird.

He isn’t wrong.

Any time a storm is brewing, I’m definitely weird.

“Ew,” Trinity says, catching me as I pass and looping an arm through mine. “I can’t believe Bethany’s rubbing herself all over him like that. Everyone knows you’re getting married after we graduate.” She lowers her voice. “Even if you don’t want to, she doesn’t know that.”

Her words claw through my chest as we look back at Knox. Bethany is now wrapped around him, his hand creeping up her bare thigh, his mouth pressed to the curve of her offered jaw. Three other girls already surround him, draping themselves like languid pieces of silk. As though his very presence makes their arms and knees go limp.

I try not to blame them. In our House, proximity to the right man means security, and that can be worth everything.

“Want me to kick her ass?” Trinity asks, her freckled white cheeks flushing with anger on my behalf. She’s petite and half a head shorter than my average height, but only because she’s “towering” in heels. She wears a fitted white dress that clings to her curves and a necklace of sparkling amethyst. Bangs fall over her eyes, and her hair is highlighted with a deep streak of purple, contrasting with her fiery orange locks.