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Lowering my eyes, I push a loose curl from my face and offer him a small smile.
“Miss Thompson,” he stutters over my name, “you look beautiful.”
“Mia,” my father barks, his expression displeased when I meet his eyes.
As we head inside, I feel the guy’s hungry gaze follow me. Does he know why I’m here? Does he know what happens after the formal dinner ends?
The founding families—or Quinctus, as we call them—aren’t stupid. They know how to cover their tracks and dress up their stupid traditions as celebrations and invite-only dinners.
Tonight is no different.
“He’s watching her,” I hear my father grumble.
“Relax, Garth. She looks beautiful. He’d be a fool not to look.” My mother casts me a reassuring smile, but I avert my eyes.
When they talk like this, it makes me feel like I’m nothing more than a possession. A thing. It makes me feel like my life isn’t my own.
I hate it.
I hate that I’m bound to these silly traditions. Suddenly, I want to run. I want to slip off my brand-new kitten heels and flee. But the minute we enter the Hall, all the fight leaves me.
“Wow,” I breathe, taking in the vaulted ceiling and stained windows.
“I can still remember the first time I stepped foot in here.” My mother joins me. “It’s beautiful, isn’t it?”
I nod, too awed to reply. Other families mingle. I spot a couple of girls from my school and we share an awkward wave. My father greets their parents, working the room like he was born to do it.
He wasn’t.
It’s my mother’s bloodline that gives us the right to be here.
Right.
I swallow a derisive groan.
It isn’t a right, it’s an order.
“Come, Mia. Let’s find our seats.”
Of course, there’s a three-course dinner to get through before the Eligere starts. I think it’s just some kind of mental torture for the prosapia, but whatever.
The ballroom is a huge, elaborate room that has been dressed in white and gold. Flowers adorn the tables and huge floor-standing candelabras line the room. I pick out the other prosapia, six in total. Only Brook is missing. But she’ll want to make a fashionably late entrance, no doubt. She was in my class, so we’re the same age, but she’s always acted superior. Probably because she’s Phillip Cargill’s stepdaughter. He’s the town mayoranda Quinctus elder, one of the most powerful men in Gravestone. Brook was always full of herself, but the second her mom shacked up with Phillip, she became insufferable.
She honestly believes it’s her right to be paired with Cade.
Good luck to her. Cade isn’t exactly nice. Sure, he has those chiseled good looks and an arrogant charm, but there’s something about him. Something dark lingering under the surface.
Something I want no part of.
As if I’ve summoned him from my mind, the room grows quiet and Cade and his posse make their grand entrance. Everyone—the other prosapia, the parents, even the servers handing out flutes of champagne—stops to watch them. The next generation. The Quinctus heirs… the Electi.
Cade Kingsley, Tim Davenport, Ashton Moore, Channing Rexford, and Brandon Cargill.
They move like a well-oiled machine, Cade slightly in front with Tim and Ashton flanking his sides, and Channing and Brandon coming up behind. They look ravishing in their matching black suits, although they all wear them in their own style. Channing has his collar unbuttoned, no tie. Tim looks the most clean-cut of the five, shirt tucked in and cuffs visible. Brandon’s suit looks a little wrinkled, like he just rolled out of bed, or someone has been grabbing at the material. It wouldn’t surprise me; rumor has it he’s the biggest player of them all. It’s easy to see why, though, with his easy smirk, bright blue eyes, and hair as dark as the night. Ashton has left his jacket off, draping it over his shoulder like he’s in a photo shoot. And Cade… Cade looks positively breathtaking. His eyes catch mine, only for a second, and a shiver rolls down my spine. He knows who I am, but he doesn’tknowme.
Because he didn’t give you a chance. I silence the little voice. I never wanted to be picked, I never wanted any of this… but I am only human, after all. An eighteen-year-old girl with dreams and desires. I press my thighs together. It’s hard not to look at the Electi and imagine things… dark, sinful things.
But then a gong rings out and the spell is broken.
