Free The Young Elites by Marie Lu Page A

over her shoulders. I don’t know what to make of it. The men admire her at the dinner. They chuckle and clink glasses. I follow Violetta’s example; I flirt and smile as hard as I can. I notice the hunger in their eyes whenever they glance at me, the way their stares linger on the line of my collarbone, my breasts. I know they want me too. They just don’t want me as a wife. One of them jokes about cornering me the next time I walk alone in our garden. I laugh with him. I imagine mixing poison into his tea, then watching his face turn purple and anguished; I picture myself leaning over him, looking on patiently, with my chin resting in my hands, admiring his dying, writhing body as I count out the minutes. Violetta doesn’t think such things. She sees happiness and hope, love and inspiration. She is our mother. I am our father.
    Again the memory disappears into thin air, and again I find myself staring at Raffaele. There is a wariness in his gaze now, distance mixed with interest. “Amare, god of Love,” he says. “Roseite, for the passion and compassion in oneself, blinding and red.”
    Finally, he holds up the amber and nightstone. The amber gives off a beautiful golden-orange color, but the nightstone is an ugly rock, dark and lumpy and dull. “What do I do this time?” I ask.
    “Hold them.” He takes one of my hands in his. I blush at how smooth the palm of his hand is, how gentle his fingers feel. When he brushes past my broken finger, I wince and flinch away. He meets my gaze. Although he doesn’t ask why I reacted to the touch, he seems to understand. “It will be okay,” he murmurs. “Hold your hand open.” I do, and he carefully places the stones in my hand. My fingers close around them.
    A violent shock ripples through me. A wave of bitter fury. Raffaele jumps backward—I gasp, then collapse to the ground. The whispers in the dark corners of my mind now spring free of their cages and fill my thoughts with their noise. They bring a flurry of memories, of everything I’ve already seen and everything I’ve fought to suppress. My father breaking my finger, shouting at me, striking me, ignoring me. The night in the rain. His shattered ribs. The long nights in the Inquisition’s dungeons. Teren’s colorless eyes. The crowd jeering at me, throwing stones at my face. The iron stake.
    I squeeze my eye shut and press my hands tightly to my ears in a desperate attempt to block it all out, but the maelstrom grows thicker, a curtain of darkness that threatens to pull me under. Papers fly up from the desk. The glass of Raffaele’s lantern shatters.
    Stop. Stop. STOP.
I will destroy everything in order to make it stop.
I will destroy all of you.
I grit my teeth as my fury swirls around me, seething and relentless, yearning to burst free. Through the whirlwind, I hear my father’s harsh whisper.
    I know who you really are. Who will ever want you, Adelina?
    My fury heightens.
Everyone. They will cower at my feet, and I will make them bleed.
    Then the shrieking fades. My father’s voice vanishes, leaving memories of it trembling in the air. I stay on the ground, my entire body shaking with the absence of my unexpected anger, my face wet with tears. Raffaele keeps his distance. We stare at each other for a long time, until he finally walks over to help me to my feet. He gestures at the chair next to his table. I sit gratefully, soaking in the sudden peace. My muscles feel weak, and I can barely keep my head up. I have a sudden urge to sleep, to dream away my exhaustion.
    After a while, Raffaele clears his throat. “Formidite and Caldora, the twin angels of Fear and Fury,” he whispers. “Amber, for the hatred buried in one’s chest. Nightstone, for the darkness in oneself, the strength of fear.” He hesitates, then looks me in the eye. “Something blackens your heart, something deep and bitter. It has festered inside you for years, nurtured and encouraged. I’ve never felt anything like it.”
    My father