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Chapter 1
Raven
Thump. Thump. Thump. Thump.
My heart picks up speed as voices filter through the cracked door. Unrecognizable voices, but unmistakable all the same.
Those are the voices of the Delacroix men. The men who have come to upend our lives and rain down misery upon another generation of the Wildblood family.
As if she’s reading my thoughts, Willow reaches for my hand, squeezing it in hers. It isn’t to give me strength. She’s seeking strength from me. Because we all know she’s the only Wildblood to bear the crescent moon-shaped birthmark that she had the unfortunate luck of being born with.
It’s the same mark of our ancestors. Of all the Wildblood women before us who had the misfortune of being ensnared by the Delacroix family. The first was Elizabeth. She was hanged on accusations of witchcraft from the ancestor of these very same men who will dare to take another Wildblood life. Because we all know the fate of any Wildblood caught in the clutches of a Delacroix. It always ends in tragedy.
I sneak a glance at my sister, giving her a reassuring squeeze while I hold back the urge to vomit. Or run. Or perhaps pick up a blade and lodge it into the flesh of the first man to walk through that door.
Only I can’t.
There is a tithe to be paid. A treaty between our families enacted after what can only be described as a generational slaughter. And if the sacrifice of one Wildblood daughter isn’t made tonight, there will be far more bloodshed to come.
We have been raised with the understanding that our fates will always be intertwined with the Delacroix family. It was settled as soon as Elizabeth Wildblood cast a curse from her lips before they hanged her. The Delacroix family fell upon hard times, and tragedy after tragedy tore through their lives, leaving a path of destruction that couldn’t be denied. There was only one acceptable solution.
They’d either murder every last Wildblood to walk this earth, or they would take what they believed was owed.
Tonight, they are coming to collect on that debt.
I suck in a sharp breath as I glance at each of my sisters. Though pale to begin with, tonight we all look ghostly. Our faces have drained of color as we stand side by side, hand in hand, dressed in black silk robes with black silk chemises beneath them. An act of defiance.
The Delacroixes have always wanted to cleanse us of our evil. The Tithing has well-established rules and expectations. All Wildblood daughters should be presented in white– a representation of our virginal purity to be pillaged at their discretion. In addition, our long red hair– an identical trait we share– should be pulled back into a neat style. But tonight, it falls in waves over each of our shoulders, dipping low to the arches of our backs.
Our faces were instructed to be free of makeup, so naturally, we’re all wearing winged eyeliner and blood-red lips. A silent fuck-you to the man who will come to pick us apart. We may have no choice but to make the sacrifice, but it doesn’t mean we will bow down. A Wildblood woman can be broken in many ways, but never in spirit.
I don’t even realize I spoke the words aloud until my sister Willow turns to offer me a nod. And then, on cue, she steels her spine as the door creaks open.
A second passes, followed by another as two men filter into the room, flanked by our teary-eyed mother and somber father.
At first glance, I can’t tell which of the dark overlords is the eldest brother. They are both alike in many ways. Looming. Imposing. Inhumanly tall, with otherworldly eyes that seem to spear right through us.
I wanted to believe that the stories I’d heard of them were exaggerated somehow. But as my eyes take in the details of their god-like features, I can’t say that they were. Both brothers seem to be carved from marble, as I can’t find a single imperfection between them, try as I might. They each bear dark hair, worn slightly longer than most of the men in my acquaintance. Their jaws are strong and well-defined, their noses straight, and their lips full. And their eyes–while equally piercing– are the most distinct feature between them. One has golden eyes that almost seem to glow, and the other possesses a haunting shade of silver I’m quite certain I’ve never seen before.
It’s the second man’s gaze that performs a quick sweep over my sisters before settling upon me. A shiver rolls down my spine as he silently dissects my features, his eyes narrowing slightly.
Caught up in the moment, I begin to question everything. Is this Azrael, the eldest brother? And is it possible he may choose me rather than my sister after all?
I swallow past the knot in my throat and tilt my chin defiantly. Perhaps he should. I would gladly go rather than allow them to take any of my sisters. But he doesn’t yet know that I’m not the one who bears the mark.
Willow’s hand tightens in mine reflexively, as if to protect me somehow, while we wait with a silence that feels suffocating. In the end, it’s not the man with the silver eyes who steps forward, but rather, the man with the golden eyes.
Azrael Delacroix, the eldest brother. Which means the other man can only be Emmanuel.
He watches impassively as Azrael begins at the end of the line, bypassing my sister Cordelia with barely a glance. She is too young to even be considered. And while he inspects Aurora, I find my gaze drifting back to Emmanuel, feeling his on mine.
He’s still studying me, and I can’t figure out why. He tilts his head to the side slightly as I curl my lips into a taunting smile. I don’t know why I do it. Only that I can’t seem to help myself.
The man may be beautiful. He may very well be descended from fallen angels if the lore surrounding his family is correct. But it doesn’t change the fact that the blood running through his veins is evil. He’s tainted merely for being a Delacroix, and I can hate him for that reason alone.
But it isn’t hate I feel when his lip tips up slightly at the corner in response to my defiance. I can’t tell if he’s mocking me or if there’s something else lurking in his dark thoughts as he examines me. I only hope he can’t recognize the quickening of my heartbeat or the flush creeping over my skin.
I straighten my spine, too distracted to realize it’s almost my turn. It’s only when Azrael’s imposing frame stands before me, blocking his brother from view, that I’m able to draw a breath. I don’t meet the eldest brother’s gaze as he stares me down, lifting the sleeves of my robe silently to inspect my arms. When he doesn’t find what he’s looking for there, he loosens the knot on my robe with a flick of his fingers, allowing the fabric to fall apart. His knuckle drags the hem of my chemise down, baring the upper swells of my breasts enough to satisfy him with the knowledge that I am not the one who bears the mark.
