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I turn my gaze on them, and, unexpectedly stop short. I almost snort.
Oh, if Grandmother could see this.
I guess the Wildbloods, too, have decided to hell with tradition because rather than the virginal white robes they’re to be presented in, all five of them are draped in black silk. Black silk against pale, vulnerable flesh. Their eyes are lined with an inky black and their lips painted blood-red. Harlots lips, Grandmother would hiss. Their faces should be bare of makeup, pure and virginal, but to be honest, I prefer this. And then there’s that hair. That vibrant red hair that should have died out generations ago according to science, tumbling wild down their backs.
It’s a sight to see and my brother doesn’t miss the low rumble in my chest. I know it in the sideways glance he gives me. But it’s not just that the Wildblood sisters are beautiful. We already knew that. That’s not it. There’s something about this room or them. There’s almost a hum, a low vibration all around us. I can feel it through the soles of my feet, the softest sound in my ears. Maybe it’s their witch’s trinkets. Or maybe it’s their defiance as they stand holding one another’s hands in solidarity against us, those who’ve come to collect what we are due.
Hell, maybe they are witches.
I’m sure Azrael has noticed they’ve broken the rules, but he won’t punish them all. The Sacrifice, yes, but not now. I know my brother. He’ll wait. Savour the moment.
I grin at the thought and casually let my gaze sweep over the sisters, purposefully not lingering on any one in particular when the blazing blue eyes of the fourth girl collide with mine. For a moment, I’m caught, that subtle hum intensifying, morphing into pure electric fire.
My grin vanishes, my heart races and hot blood rushes my veins as I memorize her.
She is similar in looks to the others but this one dares to meet my gaze. And, as if that weren’t enough, she raises her chin in defiance. The instant she does, I know exactly which witch she is. I know it without a doubt.
Raven Wildblood.
My lips twitch. My eyes narrow. I let my gaze sweep over her slowly and watch how her nipples stiffen beneath the fine silk fabric. A slow flush creeps up her neck and blooms across her cheeks. The little witch may believe herself immune to us, but her body is not. She hates me, I know, but a hate fuck is not out of the question, certainly.
Besides, her insolence demands correction.
Unless, of course, she is the one with the mark. Then it will not be me who delivers her punishment.
My hands fist at my sides.
My brother steps to the first of the sisters and Raven’s gaze falters. Her shoulders shudder momentarily, betraying her fear.
Yes, little witch, this is real, and it is happening.
Azrael barely pauses at the first girl. She’s clearly too young.
Four to go.
Raven Wildblood swallows. I get the feeling she’s steeling herself.
As my brother inspects the second and third sisters for the mark, I keep my eyes on Raven and cannot deny that I don’t want it to be her.
I don’t want her to bear the mark.
I don’t want her to be chosen.
Because I don’t want him to have her.
My hands are so tightly clenched that my fingernails cut into my palms.
In that moment, Raven’s eyes meet mine once more and, to my surprise, her mouth curves into a taunting smile as if she can read my fucking thoughts.
Before I can decide how to react, it’s her turn. My brother’s broad back blocks her from view and my heartbeat picks up, my gut tightening as he takes one arm, pushes the silk back to look at her wrist, her hand tiny in his. My teeth clench as I wait for him to complete the ritual. As I try to decide what I will do if she is the one.
Because if she is marked, she will be his.
And I’m not sure I can allow that.
I don’t have to think about it for too long, though, because he abruptly moves to the next girl. The instant he does I exhale.
Raven Wildblood doesn’t bear the birthmark. She is not meant for him.
