13
Romy
Leaving the relative comfort of my room for a second night of drinks and mingling has my stomach in knots I didn’t even know were possible.
Overhand, bowline, square—they have nothing on this shit, and trust me, I know my fucking knots. My dad is a boatsman. At least, that’s what he loves to call himself.
Every summer, he’d take my mom and me over to Provincetown, Cape Cod, to stay for a week and then sail his boat down to Martha’s Vineyard. I wish I could say it was a fond memory that makes sending me to this shit feel like it’s really out of character—but my dad has always been the same.
Quiet. Authoritative. Selfishly driven and spineless when it counts.
Pressing a palm against the soft burgundy fabric of tonight’s velvet dress, I turn to the side to take the steps down the staircase with care. My heels are precariously tall—by my mother’s decree—and my legs shake like they belong to a newborn colt.
Tonight, we won’t just be with the women. Tonight, the vampires will be joining us—and not just the one who kissed me last night. All of them.
I imagine they’ll be testing us in some way. Seeing how moldable our will is and how easily we break. I wish like hell I knew if it would be safer to be accommodating or to press—but I fear the real answer is that there is no safety net here.
One way or another, at the end of the process, you leave with a vampire.
“Hey, Romy,” Hillary greets, meeting up with me about halfway down the staircase. Her heels are a much more manageable three inches to my six, and I wish a little harder that I’d fought my mother on the shoe issue.
“Hey, Hillary.” I force a smile, even though everything feels painfully off.
Though, she looks good. Gorgeous, even. A blue chiffon gown makes her eyes seem twice as big and bright as normal. Her lips are painted a coral pink, and her skin shimmers like she’s used some sort of body balm.
I, on the other hand, am wearing minimal makeup and considered not showering, just to make myself a little less appealing.
The effort to put myself together is the very lowest I’ve made all day, because during the rest of the time, I’ve been a girl on a mission to burst some na?ve bubbles.
This morning, after a quick workout and conversation with the girls I already knew during our fitness time, I encouraged both Hillary and Abigail to gather a larger group to sit with us for lunch.
They did—Abigail has been quite the social butterfly since arriving and knows nearly everyone—but it didn’t do me much good, seeing as I couldn’t get a word in edgewise around the palpable excitement over tonight.
How handsome they would be. The things they might say. The thrill of a new crush and then being chosen by him tomorrow.
They had a dozen positive twists on something I see as the worst experience of my life, and while that hindered my progress, it also made me sad.
Sad for them. Sad for the letdown when the truth is far less pretty.
Determined to make headway, I regrouped and focused on the afternoon spa event for planting my seeds, and because of how weird it was on a basic level, I was fairly successful.
Women who showed up expecting massages and facials were met with IVs and blood-filtering machines instead. It was very Dr. Frankenstein-esque, and I could tell by the looks on several of their faces, they were wondering what the hell they’d gotten themselves into.
I can see now, though, that the time back in their rooms and the exercise of getting ready for a party tonight has renewed some of their positive energy, and it’s my job now to find a way to squash it without being so much of a buzzkill they all stop talking to me.
Easy, right?
Hah.
“You look really nice, Hillary,” I say finally, the words feeling out of place with everything else rattling around in my head, but very much needed to cultivate her trust.
“Thanks,” she says graciously, accepting my compliment. “I tried, but I’m not exactly a dab-hand with makeup. My mom hired a makeup artist for me yesterday, who came before I left the house. All I had to do last night was a few touch-ups, so I did the best I could.”
I laugh a little. “Mine did too. But not because I can’t do it myself. She just knew I wouldn’t if left to my own devices.”
I present my face as evidence, but instead of laughing, she tilts her head thoughtfully to the side.
“Why do you think you’re so opposed to this whole thing?
I mean, don’t get me wrong, I understand the hesitation.
I’m undecided too. But I’ve kind of…” She shrugs.
“Been trying to get used to the idea, I guess. You don’t really seem like you want to, but for me, I feel like it’s the best thing I can do.
I don’t want to resent my life. Especially preemptively. I mean, what if it’s great?”
“Yeah, I don’t think this is the kind of idea I can get used to.
” I shake my head, trying not to drag her into the pit of despair before she has to go out there and put on a happy face.
I want her to doubt—not put herself in real danger by outwardly objecting to the fucking vampires.
“My mom and dad have been prepping me for this for years. So, it’s not as if I haven’t had time, but I don’t know…
I just pictured something more…romantic for myself.
I don’t want to settle. Why should I have to settle? Why should any of us have to settle?”
She nods, lowering her voice as we slow behind a group of other girls at the door to the ballroom. “Meet a guy, be courted, fall in love.”
“Yes,” I agree. “Exactly. This is a great group of women. The best of the freaking best, purportedly. And we’re supposed to be cool with having everything picked for us instead of having any say?” I scrunch up my nose. “Seems weird.”
I think about Cal scaling the building last night to climb in my window like some kind of unhinged superhero and telling me we’re freaking fated mates .
The same Cal I used to follow around like a shadow when I was a little girl. The one I chose before I even knew what choosing meant.
It’s not my choice either, but somehow, it feels different.
Irrational or not, deep down, I feel like something in me has been waiting for him all along. And the second he kissed me, something inside me… clicked into place.
In a weird way, it seems as if being here is my path to romance. As fucked up as it is. And that Cal is fated to me because I chose him so early on.
I can’t say that to her without exposing Cal or betraying him by putting his trip to my room at a statistically higher chance of being revealed, though, so I settle for the next best option—saying nothing at all.
“I get that, Romy. I do.” Her smile is soft and thoughtful—hopeful in a way that stings. “But maybe…maybe being this adored …this useful …this powerful for someone else, so much so that these men are basically fighting over us… Maybe it could be good too?”
Good? Yeah, somehow, I don’t think anything good for women includes the loss of free will and having to be locked and guarded in their rooms at night just to sleep, but I don’t bother explaining that. I’ve already said it. She already knows. She just needs time for the doubt to fester.
“Yeah. Maybe,” I say instead, trying to comfort her with a small smile.
She snorts. “Wow. You really shouldn’t ever play poker, okay?”
I shrug. “I’m sorry. Really.”
“It’s okay,” she reassures with a shake of her head. “It’s a wild thing, coming here to be selected by a vampire and giving up your entire life as you’ve known it. We’re all handling it the best we can.”
Okay, that clinches it. Her sweet nature is too good to ignore. The friendship with Hillary is a solid plan, and if and when I find a way out of this mess, I’m taking her with me.
“You’re so right,” I confirm, squeezing her hand as we take our turn through the door to the ballroom and fan out to the side where waiters are standing with trays of champagne. I grab a glass for me and a glass for Hillary, handing it to her.
She takes it gratefully, and we both down a quick sip before working our way to the side of the room where an immensely intimidating crowd of men is waiting. The sight is overwhelming, and our newly found silence only confirms it.
This shit is Scary Central on steroids.
Sharp black tuxes, strong, shapely jaws, and height so imposing it seems genetically impossible for this many guys in one room to possess it, are the most common, immediate themes.
My stomach churns as they pick out women with their eyes, calling them over without taking even a step in our direction.
Maybe it’s the comfort of familiarity—or maybe it’s something else—but I’m drawn strongly toward Cal.
His safety. His comfort. His protection.
If I’m supposed to be talking to one of these guys, I want it to be him.
He stands in the far back corner of the ballroom, a glass of amber liquid in his hand and a hard set in his jaw. He looks incredibly handsome—he always did, even as a kid—but he also looks angry. My system wars with the dichotomy, but my legs keep moving.
I’m halfway to him when a voice I can’t quite place fills my ears, giving me a polite order. “Please. Don’t come to me first.”
When I stop cold, Cal’s eyebrows lift noticeably.
“Can you hear me?” he asks, this time much more clearly. It’s startling because at this distance and with the complete lack of volume—it’s not like he’s shouting—there’s no way I should be able to hear him.
But I can.
Somehow.
I nod shakily, trying like hell not to freak out. I mean, this is weird. How in the world can I hear him talking to me from this far away? Because of fate, my mind whispers.
“Good. That’s good,” Cal tells me. “I know it’s probably scary, but I need you to trust me. And if you can’t do that, trust the boy you once knew, okay?”