“Cillian,” I reply, squaring my shoulders to appear intimidated, though the shit I’ve lived through beat that emotion out of me a long time ago.
“Is Cillian joining us on our run?” Malachi’s gaze moves over the chain poking out of my T-shirt, then over my high-tops.
He catalogs me like inventory, visibly finding each line item wanting. Good. That means he has no clue who I truly am.
“No. It’s just the two of us.” Electra berths her hand in mine, causing my palm to tingle and my breathing to glitch. “Unless you’ve invited others?”
“No.”
Her grip is unyielding, like some tactile form of lockjaw.
Is my father turning over in his grave at the sight of his only child holding hands with an Atlantean? His son, whoneverholds hands. Not with women who aren’t part of his family in any case.
The erratic thump of my heart deafens me to whatever Electra says next to Malachi. The last time my fingers found themselves laced around another’s was on the night when death tried to claim Quinn. I’d clutched her hand until her fever broke and her breathing evened out and heat kissed her icy skin.
I glance down at the fingers presently lodged in mine. The ones triggering my pulse. They’re slender, solid, tanned, hot. So hot that for a second, I think Electra must be pouring magic into me, but her runes and eyes don’t glow as is custom when the Atlanteans use their powers.
It’s one of the first facts they teach in the organization. For those of us born into it, we learn this before we learn to spell our names.
Electra pivots to face me. “Call me after class?”
My eyes dart to her lips that glisten with the faintest sheen of moisture, as though she’d licked them. Is she gearing up for a kiss?
The strain of anticipation tautens the tendons in my neck until I think they might snap if I so much as attempt to bow my head.
“Cillian?” Her lips move over my false name, stroking each syllable, each letter.
How would she make my real name sound? Like a secret or a curse?
The parking lot hums as we stand there, stare and fingers welded together. Her dark lenses do little to stifle the vibrancy of her irises—the brown one flashes like burnished copper, and the blue like translucent ice.
They make me think of her personality—a clash of soft and hard—as though in utero, her body couldn’t decide which way to lean.
As I map her face, a warm current licks my ribs, intensifying the noise around us. I can hear the thud of car tires dipping into that pothole at the entrance of the lot, the clank of whisks brushing against the sides of bowls in the test kitchen, the pop of knuckles as Malachi says, “I’ll wait for you out front, Elle.”
The instant he turns the corner, the electrifying weight of Electra’s hand and stare vanishes. I feel cold and drained, like an unplugged appliance.
Shemusthave been using her magic. That’s the only explanation I can find for the abrupt dip. But how come it’s affecting me? Has my immunity to Atlantean compulsion weakened? Wasn’t our prenatal treatment supposed to be immutable?
She backs up. “Don’t catch feelings.”
That snaps me out of whatever trance she put me under.
“I make no promises,” I say, slipping back into character.
She stops backing up. “I suppose it doesn’t matter.”
I pretend-frown, knowing full well what she meant by that. That if I do fall for her, she’ll compel me to stop or just resort to lobotomizing me.
Except she can’t make me do a damn thing.
Not that I’d ever fall for an Atlantean, no matter how pretty the monster’s mask.
Chapter 7
Electra
Malachi Hadez in athletic wear is a sight for sore eyes: head-to-toe navy that makes his irises pop, and dark-gold hair swept back with precision.
