Chapter 31
Electra
Cillian is ridiculously talented. And hot. So. Very. Hot.
I didn’t think I’d ever be the sort who’d enjoy following a choreography with a bunch of rowdy, virtually unfamiliar women, but here I am enjoying two-stepping and grapevines, and Gaea knows what else Cillian’s having us do.
The fringes of my dress swing as I stomp my boots and roll my hips. Whenever I catch my reflection in the gallery wall of mirrors in front of us, I find that I am grinning. Who have I become?
Even though my sense of rhythm is not great and my timing worse, the way Cillian looks at me makes me feel like some prima ballerina—or an exotic dancer. I can’t wait to go home with him, because, yeah, I’m taking him home with me tonight.
And not because I worry Suze might poach him otherwise, or because I’ve downed one very potent Last Yeehaw before coming downstairs, but because I ache to feel his lips on me, and his big callused hands wandering my skin.
The two hours of dancing fly by.
Too soon, he’s thanking Tricia and Jeneva for having included him, and leading Fiona to the bar for a tall glass of probably not water.
“I love your boyfriend,” Calanthe murmurs, taking my arm and leading me out of the underground space Logan put at Jeneva’s disposal.
“He’s not my—”
“Make it official already. You’re taking him to Atlantis. A-tlan-tis,” she repeats, enunciating each syllable as though the weight of it might’ve escaped me the first time.
“Who’s taking who to my island?” Tarian appears at the top of the staircase, white button-down open at the collar and sleeves rolled up.
The grin that wings itself onto Calanthe’s lips at the sight of her soulmate lights her up. Does my face do that when I look at Cillian?
We’ve been separated for all of a minute, yet my heart speeds up when I reach the landing.
I knew I was done thinking when I arrived with Calanthe and laid eyes on him, but now I can feel it. His body calls to mine. Or maybe it’s his soul?
Whatever it is, it exerts such a gravitational force that I don’t even realize letting go of Calanthe’s arm and crossing the bar area toward where he’s bantering with Logan and Fiona.
I crash their conversation. “Fi, are you having another one of those—what did you call them again, Lo?”
“Last Yeehaws,” the blond Southerner drawls. “Reckon those need to find their way onto my menu.”
“They absolutely should. They’re excellent. Unlike your Atlantitarians.” I scrunch up my nose. “Those are god-awful.”
Logan laughs. “Believe it or not, those are what people keep comin’ back for.”
That, and the fact that Atlantean patrons are often spotted in his venue.
“You need a back entrance, Logan.” My brother, who must’ve rolled in with Tarian, nods his head in greeting as he approaches. “It’s chaos outside. Did you advertise free drinks or something?”
“No.” Logan sticks the shaker bottle in the sink. “But I did mention a private event.”
“That explains it.” Dorian looks squarely in Cillian’s direction as he asks, “The women behaved, Logan?”
I bristle at my brother’s deliberate snub. “Logan wasn’t there the whole time. But Cillian was. You should ask him.”
Dorian’s cheeks hollow.
“All but Fi,” Cillian replies with a smile. To the world, it looks like he’s oblivious to the tension, but his fisted fingers and the tendons roping his neck mark the strain beneath his calm.
Fiona flashes us her veneers. “You missed out, honey.”
My brother is too busy glaring at Cillian to register her words. “Can I have a word with you, Elle?”
I purse my lips but walk down to a quieter part of the bar with him.
He leads with, “Diego told me about Callie’s dream. Just because she saw him there doesn’t mean he’d be coming as your boyfriend.”
“What else would he be coming as? Fi’s boytoy?” I deadpan.
“Maybe he’s not coming at all. Maybe Callie confused him with someone else. What I’m trying to say is, you don’t have to date him.”
I slap a hand across my chest in fake relief. “Thank Gaea. Here I was, emotionally drafting our wedding vows.”
Dorian’s jaw tics.
“Dee, you know me better than that.” I grip his bulging biceps and give them a squeeze. “Would I ever date a person I didn’t feel like dating?”
“I wouldn’t actually know, since I’ve never seen you in a relationship,” he grumbles.
I could confess I’ve never been in one and that I lied the other day, but instead, I ask a more important question: “Why don’t you like him?”
My brother purses his mouth. “Do you like him?”
“I think so. I mean, I like him more than I like most people.”
Dorian harrumphs. “That’s not exactly a high bar.”
True.
“Are you going home with him?” A grimace grips his face.
It actually makes me smile since it comes from brotherly concern and not any real dislike of Cillian.
“Yeah. I was going to suggest we Netflix and chill,” I say.
Dorian color-changes like the mood ring he got me for my eleventh birthday. For weeks, I was convinced it was imbued with actual mine magic.
“You do know what that”—he rolls his lips—“what that means, right?”
“Watching a series. With snacks.” I nail such a perfect straight face that my brother’s lashes go wild. “That’s what it means, right?”
Dorian finally grumbles, “Expect me for breakfast.” He starts to shift his attention off me, but an afterthought makes him swing his head back in my direction and study what he can see of my face beneath the brim of Cillian’s cowboy hat.
“You can’t catch STDs, but you could still get pregnant, so don’t do”—his mouth twists like he’s chewing on overcooked steak—“it without protection.”
I roll my eyes. “Yes, Mom.”
“I’m serious, Elle.”
“You think I want a kid?” I revert to Atlantean to keep this conversation private.
“No, but accidents happen.”
“To people who don’t use condoms,” I remind him.
“Monta swears he wore one with all his human partners,” Dorian murmurs.
I grimace. “First off, yuck—it’s my genitor we’re talking about. Second off, I wouldn’t be here if he had worn rubber, so I guess there’s that.”
Again, Dorian’s lips scrunch, but not in revulsion this time. “Before you leave, I want a word with him… Cillian!” He waves him over.
As Cillian pulls away from Logan and Fiona, wearing a small frown, I snatch my brother’s wrist. “Don’t chase him away.”
“I won’t,” he promises, then in English and loudly—for Cillian’s sake—he adds, “I just want to establish a few ground rules. Go see Callie or something.”
Although reluctant to leave the two of them alone, I stray over toward Calanthe, who’s exchanging wedding tips with Tricia, and park myself at their side.
Jeneva joins us, sipping on a bottle of water.
She follows my line of sight and smirks.
“Wouldn’t want to be in your boyfriend’s shoes right now.
Your brother is one scary guy.” She lowers her voice to murmur into my ear, “Granted, not as scary as Tarian. Callie’s fiancé looks like he could actually kill a person just by looking at them. ”
I don’t tell her how accurate her instinct is about Tarian, and not because I can’t, but because I’m too busy dwelling on her choice of words: my boyfriend.
Is that what Cillian Lowry’s about to become?