The Young Elites (The Young Elites, #1)(33)

Then he will kill her. I have no choice. I simply nod.

No answer. The brush of his breath against my ear vanishes, and cool air prickles my skin. The drumbeats finally come to a stop. Up on the platform, Raffaele and the other two consorts bow to the crowd. The roomful of clients leap to their feet, roaring their enthusiasm, their applause thunderous. In the midst of the chaos, I look around me in a frantic attempt to find Teren’s face.

But he’s already disappeared into the sea of masked faces, as if he were never there. Only his words remain, echoing in my mind, haunting me.

I have been turned into a spy against my will.





Let it be known, so the gods help me. I am not a traitor. I am not a spy.

   —Inscription etched in stone on the wall of an Estenzian prison cell,

by an unnamed prisoner





Adelina Amouteru



I retreat to my bedchamber that night without saying a word to anyone. Raffaele frowns at me as I leave, his eyes following my figure from across the main court, but I force a quick smile at him and hurry away. It isn’t until he catches up with me in the secret halls that I finally turn around to face him.

Raffaele seems genuinely concerned for me, an emotion that tugs at my heart. He brushes my cheek with a brief touch of his fingers. His eyes are still bold with gold powder, his lashes long and black. “You seemed frightened during the performance,” he murmurs. “Are you all right?”

I force back a smile and try to keep distance between us. The last thing I need is for him to sense how much I’m trembling. “Yes, I was,” I lie, hoping he can’t tell. “I felt too exposed in the audience tonight. Perhaps just my nerves.” I try to smile. “I’ve never seen you perform.”

Raffaele watches me carefully. I try to comfort myself with the fact that he can only feel the shift of my energy, not read my actual thoughts. If he thinks I’m acting strange, let him think it’s because of his performance, or from being out in public.

Or I could tell him what happened. I could let him know that Teren has hunted me down, confess the task he gave me. After all, Enzo saved my life. Didn’t he?

But Raffaele’s warning during my gemstone test haunts me. What if the Daggers kill me? They haven’t known me long enough to trust me. What if this is enough to convince them that I am far too risky to keep around? No. I can’t tell them. I might be dead by tomorrow if I do. And Violetta will stay in the Inquisition’s clutches.

Finally, Raffaele decides to give in. He puts a hand on my shoulder. “Rest well tonight,” he says. He kisses my cheeks in reassurance, then turns to leave down the hall.

I watch him go. Whether or not he actually believes me, I have no idea.

That night, I stare sleeplessly at the ceiling. I try to picture my sister shivering in the same dark Inquisition cell I stayed in. Had she really begged for my life? Am I willing to risk myself to save her? How do I even know he has her? Do I dare doubt him?

Next week. What am I going to do? How am I even going to sneak away?

The following day, when Raffaele asks me how I’m feeling, I only say that I feel much better. He gives me a sidelong glance, but doesn’t force me to say more.

Another day passes. My initial panic settles into a steady undercurrent of unease. Maybe I had dreamed the whole thing, and Teren never came in the first place. This thought is so tempting that I almost let myself believe it.

By the third day, I’m able to think. In order to survive, I must play this game. And I must play it well.



Five days after the masquerade.

Raffaele and I are back in the cavern. He observes me as I study Enzo sparring with the Spider, trying to figure out how their energy works. Teren’s words linger in my mind, reminders of what he expects from me. My week is almost up. How will I ever be able to sneak off to the Inquisition Tower?

I try to focus instead. “Where did he learn to fight like that?” I ask Raffaele as we watch Enzo circling the Spider.

“He was supposed to be king,” Raffaele reminds me as he jots down notes on a sheet of paper. He pauses to dip his quill in an inkwell sitting on the floor. “He trained with the Inquisitors as a child.”

Enzo waits for his opponent to strike first. For a long minute, nothing happens. The others call out jeers and encouragement from the edges of the circle. Then, suddenly—Spider lunges at Enzo, his wooden sword slashing forward toward the prince’s left side. My weak side. The move is so fast that I see nothing more than a blur through the air—but somehow, Enzo manages to predict the strike and darts out of the way at the last second. Fire sparks from his hands, engulfing him in a tight cylinder. Spider jumps back. Even with his speed, I can tell that the heat has singed the edges of his clothes. Enzo quells the flames at the same time as he dashes toward Spider, as if materializing from behind a veil of orange and gold. He strikes three times in rapid succession. Spider deflects the blows, one after another, then lunges back. The two of them rage on in a tense battle. The force of their hits echo in the cavern.

Finally, Enzo catches the tiring Spider off guard. He kicks Spider’s sword out of his grasp, grabs the wooden hilt, and points it back at his opponent’s neck. The other Daggers let out whoops, while Spider utters a growl of frustration. Duel’s over. I let out a shaking breath as both of them lower their weapons and step away from each other.