Chapter 1 The Selection #3
Yet Prince Draven stops him from heading my way, turning little Ansel around and whispering something in his small, pointed ear.
Prince Ansel nods up at his older brother, grasping his hand, and Prince Draven tugs him toward the other side.
They’ll make this Selection together. My hopes sink.
What if they’ve made all their Selections before they reach me?
The young prince would have been easier to guile, willing and eager to submit.
Prince Draven seems … more difficult.
I cannot tell his age, but he doesn’t seem much older than my twenty years.
But the effortless grace of his movements sends a warning firing through my chest. It whispers he’s something other, something magic, a dangerous predator to watch and not turn my back upon.
His eyes are the only visible bit of him beyond his tall, muscled form and long dark hair, wearing a mask like all the others.
Yet, that gaze lingers on me again and again, a crinkle visible in the corners as if he finds me amusing.
My lip curls, yet I can’t stop staring right back.
This prick has probably had everything handed to him his whole life.
I focus on his narrow waist, his muscular arms, and shoulders.
Even his damn legs are powerful beneath the dark cloth.
Damn it, he must have a weakness somewhere.
I force my gaze from lingering too long anywhere else, and his eyes flit back to me again.
I swear there’s some smugness there, as if he can read exactly how I just drank in his strapping body.
What an asshole.
While others duck their heads, I keep my eyes on Prince Draven.
He whispers instructions to his brother, allowing the boy to make guided choices.
At first, Prince Ansel wavers, but then he grows more confident with each Selection.
When one girl cries, Ansel freezes, head swiveling back to his parents with worry.
The Queen nods, encouraging his wickedness, so he continues, Draven a hissing serpent at his side.
The Selection speeds up, and the choices come faster. Prince Draven never deigns to pick, though his whispers in his brother’s ear make me wonder if he’s secretly chosen them all. They Select as many in the back and middle as the front.
They’re only a few steps away. My heart races when Prince Ansel stops, and my breaths halt with him. He counts on his fingers, then turns to his brother.
“How many more?”
“Four,” Prince Draven supplies. His words ghost across the nape of my neck despite him standing several paces away. My lungs don’t catch enough air. I can’t risk waiting another year to be Selected. It must be now.
“Oh, good. Only four,” Prince Ansel huffs, relieved.
As if this is harder on them than the families here.
He walks a few more steps, choosing the lava-cursed guy even though he kept his head lowered.
Then, a ginger-haired girl my age, chin held high, throat bobbing, tears streaking down her freckled face.
Prince Ansel walks nearer. So small up close.
He stands inches from my face. I thrum with anticipation. Me, choose me. He takes me in, then my hair. He points to Kasper instead, his small, soft hand lifting and Kasper’s shoulders sag in respite. Now, there’s only one to go.
My stomach churns, readying to flip.
He’s confusing my snowy hair for age. He probably doesn’t know what moon-cursed even means, as it’s only an affliction of mortals. My face heats, temple sweating as my window closes, hopes shuttering.
The young prince’s fine-boned shoulders slump, eyes glazing over the crowd beyond me, but it’s clear he’s exhausted, and the rest around me are actual elders, rarely chosen.
I glower at Draven, who holds my gaze as if he enjoys seeing me on my knees, but he doesn’t whisper anything more to his brother, letting him choose. Or be persuaded. I see my opportunity.
“Pick me,” I whisper in a rush. Those beside me lean away sharply.
Prince Ansel’s steady sapphire eyes snap to mine, and I’m surprised at how commanding they are for a child.
But then he startles and steps back into his brother.
I wince. We’re not allowed to speak to the immortal royals.
It’s strictly forbidden, worthy of execution.
My gaze slowly travels upright, meeting Prince Draven’s burning indigo stare at well over six feet tall.
The color shifts, turning purple before my eyes. Definitely not a trick, then, but some magic I don’t recognize. There’s a light in them that shouldn’t be there, a daring playfulness, like a wolf toying with a hare before it sinks its teeth in.
His head tilts to the side, and then suddenly he kneels, still taller than his young brother, but now closer to my eye level. Draven’s hand supports the small of his brother’s back to keep his spine straight, undaunted.
“She isn’t supposed to speak to me,” Prince Ansel whispers worriedly, looking to him.
Prince Draven appraises me in that same steady way, devouring me. His tone is mischievous as he utters, “Well, I guess we’ll just have to keep that a secret between the three of us, won’t we?”
Prince Ansel gives a small giggle, as jarring as if it were released during a funeral. Yet he nods.
His small hand lifts and points square at my chest.