Chapter 2
Electra
Malachi’s here.
He’s back.
I’m about to press away from the bar when I spot a platinum-haired woman at his side. And not just any woman—Ines. One of my least favorite people, and I have a lot of least favorite people.
My teeth slide that she tagged along. But what was I expecting? Not only is she an Atlantean, but Malachi and Ines have been traveling together for the better part of the year. They probably just hopped off the same private jet and rolled up to the venue in the same—
Malachi grips Ines’s hip.
My chest aches with a sudden, fragile coldness that forces a series of quick swallows.
“Miss Serran? Electra?” Cillian’s voice snaps me out of my daze, reminding me that I have witnesses to my heartbreak.
Even though I don’t acknowledge him, fire swarms my heart and punches my cheeks.
After glaring at Malachi’s hand for another solid minute, I bounce my gaze around the room until I lock eyes on Calanthe. She either doesn’t feel my stare or she does and chooses to ignore me.
Ines leans over to murmur something into Malachi’s ear. He tips his head to make her job easier before whispering something back.
Jealousy doesn’t only prick my chest; it gores me. I swear to Gaea that if their lips connect, I will…
I will…
A chest cloaked in black and ringed by a necklace shears off my line of sight. “Are you okay?”
I’m lightyears past okay. I’m fucking seething. “Can you stop crowding me?”
“Is that him?” he murmurs.
My gaze veers off Malachi and climbs to Cillian’s. “Him?”
“Calanthe mentioned I shouldn’t get my hopes up because your heart was set on another guy.”
“And yet you still came tonight.” My searing murmur zaps the air between us. “Were you hoping I’d take one look at you and swoon?”
Cillian drops his stare to his sneakers and tunnels his fingers through his brownish mop. “I was hoping you’d dance with me and…I guess…yeah, swoon.”
His candor takes me by such surprise that I bark out a laugh.
A flush streaks the tips of his ears and catches on his pale cheeks. Though the burgundy glass candelabra poised above our heads spits out only subdued light, I don’t miss how the blush usurps his neck and mottles his jaw.
Guilt makes me contemplate being nice and explaining that it’s not him. That no man will ever stand a chance against Malachi, but Cillian doesn’t need to know this. By tomorrow, he and I will be back to being two ships passing each other in the dark.
“Look, you’re not my type,” I say to put the gym coach’s desire to bed once and for all.
Could I have tufted my verdict with a touch of kindness? Probably. But being a bitch is bound to make him feel like he dodged a bullet. Which will work in everyone’s favor.
Instead of marching away, though, the clearly intrepid human lifts his gaze back to mine.
A gaze that smacks of resolve. “I can help you.”
“Help me?” Could I sound more stupefied?
“Win him over,” he adds quietly.
I dart a glance down the bar for an eavesdropper wearing a mermaid dress. Thankfully, Jeneva’s gone.
“I can help you win him over.” Cillian’s tone is so resolute that I crook a brow.
“I don’t need your help.”
“Some people only understand a person’s worth once they see that person on someone else’s arm.” Forget resolve. The man is obstinacy personified.
“Mal’s not like that,” I find myself explaining—Gaea only knows why. “But even if he were, someone like you wouldn’t exactly provoke jealous feelings in him.”
Cillian’s pupils shrink as anger and hurt suck the light from his stare.
Come on. Tuck your tail between your legs and leave.
But Cillian Lowry stands his ground. Which is too close to my ground.
So I inject the glow of my magic into my eyes. “Forget that I made you feel like shit but remember that I’m a bitch. Also, I’m not your date; Fiona is. Go be with her.”
I nod to the table reserved for the family, where Fiona sits like an empress while two waiters fuss over her, topping off her wine and bread.
When I look back at Cillian, his mouth is pressed into a firm line. I assume, from the effect of my compulsion. Why didn’t I think of using it earlier? Oh, right—we’re not supposed to use magic on or around mortals unless we’re under duress.
This definitely qualified.
As I circle him, I add, “See you later, Mr. Ballerina.”
Malachi and Ines are moving through the room but keep being stopped by humans and Atlanteans alike. Their latest greeter is super tall, with coiffed brown hair that looks slicked in the oil he extracts from the land back in his home state of Texas.
I’ve seen the Atlantean in pictures but have never been introduced to him because, according to Dorian and my adoptive parents, Gael Monta is slimy and has paltry morals. I suspect they think this way because he’s Ines’s husband—ex-husband?—and they love Ines oh-so-much.
The muffled sound of knuckles popping draws my attention to the side and up toward Cillian. Why did he stop next to me? Why didn’t he zoom straight toward Fiona? Could my compulsion not have worked?
I’m running through the wording I used when he finally marches off. And not in the direction of Fiona but toward the bathroom.
Contemplating the effectiveness of my compulsion works wonders at distracting me from my overwhelming jealousy.
That is, until the source of said jealousy says, “I hear you dropped out of college.”