The Young Elites (The Young Elites #1)(39)
Author: Marie Lu

I nod. “My mother used to sing it to me when I was very little.”

“I like it when you sing. It calms your energy.”

I pause, embarrassed. He must be able to sense my heightened sense of unease for the past few days, as my next appointment with Teren draws near. “I’m not very good. I don’t have her voice.” I almost tell him about my sister, how Violetta’s voice sounds closer to my mother’s—but then I remember where my sister is right now. I swallow the words.

Raffaele doesn’t comment on my energy this time. Maybe he thinks the thought of my mother saddens me. “Can you sing it for me?” I ask him, to distract myself. “I’ve never heard you before.”

He tilts his head at me in the way that makes me blush. My alignment to passion stirs. His eyes go back to the water. He hums a little, then sings the first few verses of the lullaby. My lips part at the sound of his voice, the sweetness of the melody, the way the lyrics hang in the air, light and clear and full of longing. When I sing it, the song comes out as individual notes, but when he sings, the notes change to music. I can hear my mother in the words. A memory comes back to me of a warm afternoon and our sun-drenched garden, when my mother danced with me to the lullaby. When she caught me, I turned around to hug her and buried myself in her dress.

Mama, Mama, I called up to her. Will you be very sad when I grow up?

My mother bent down and touched my face. Her cheeks were wet. Yes, my darling, she answered. I will be very sad.

The melody ends, and Raffaele lets the last note disappear in the air. He glances at me. I realize that tears are blurring my vision, and reach up to hurriedly wipe them away. “Thank you,” I murmur.

“You’re welcome.” He smiles back, and there is genuine affection in his expression.

For a moment, I sense something I’ve never sensed outside of the Dagger Society. Something I’m finding only now, surrounded by young strangers that remind me of myself. Kindness. With no strings attached.

I can see a life for me here, as one of them.

It’s a very, very dangerous way to think. How can I be their friend, with what I’m doing? The closer I get, the harder it will be the next time Teren expects me to deliver what I’ve promised him. But the longer he stays away and the stronger I get, the bolder I grow. I return to watching the scenery with Raffaele, but my mind spins. I need to find a way out, to find Violetta without giving Teren his information. And the only way is to work up the courage to tell the Daggers the truth.

Raffaele’s sessions with me evoke gentle passion—but nothing I do with anyone comes close to my training sessions with Enzo himself.

Enzo pushes my emotions hard. He teaches me how to create a convincing illusion of fire, how a flame flickers, how the color of it changes from red to gold to blue to white. I weave and weave until I exhaust myself.

“Your strikes are unfocused,” he snaps one night as he teaches me the basics of sparring with a wooden sword. “Concentrate.” Our clashes echo in the empty cavern. He knocks the weapon out of my hand with one effortless blow, then kicks it up in the air and flings it back at me. I scramble to catch it, but my weak vision means I miss it by a good several inches. The wood hits my wrist. I wince. At this hour, all I want to do is go to bed.

“My apologies, Your Highness,” I retort, ignoring the pain. Curse him to the Underworld—he always attacks on my blind side. I know he tries to anger me on purpose, to strengthen my power, but I don’t care. “I’m a merchant’s daughter. I haven’t exactly trained for dueling.”

“You’re not dueling. You’re learning basic defense. Young Elites have enemies.” Enzo points his sword at me. “Again.”

I strike. I conjure a dark silhouette of a wolf and fling it at him, hoping to throw him off. It doesn’t. He dodges my blow with ease, then lunges back, clashing with me twice until we’re close to the cavern’s wall. He whirls and yanks a dagger straight out of his boot. This second blade stops a hairsbreadth from my neck.

My fury heightens. What’s the point of pitting a lamb against an expert assassin? I conjure an illusion of smoke that explodes around us. Then I do a move he taught me—I grab his dagger and aim for his throat.

His hand clamps hard on my wrist before I can make contact. Heat rushes through me. Something sharp taps against my chest. When I look down, I see a sword point hovering over my ribs. “Don’t forget one weapon just because of another,” he says. A flicker of approval flashes in his eyes. “Or you’ll find yourself skewered in no time.”

“Then maybe you should know which weapons are real,” I reply. The dagger I’m holding near his throat vanishes in a puff of smoke. The real dagger I’d taken from him is in my other hand, which I now press against his side.

Enzo studies me with a thoughtful expression. Then he smiles—a genuine smile, full of surprise and amusement. It warms his entire face. My fear is abruptly replaced by joy, the satisfaction of finally pleasing him. He carefully drops the wooden sword, pushes my hand away from his side, and fixes my grip on the dagger’s handle. Heat rushes through me. His chest presses against my shoulder and side; his gloved hand covers mine. A surge of passion cuts through my darkness, and the color of the smoke around us changes from black to red.

“Like this,” he murmurs, molding my hand into the correct grip. He says nothing about the shifting color of the smoke.

I stay silent and do as he says. The warmth trickling from his fingers to mine feels as delicious as hot water over an aching body.

“Create a dagger again,” he whispers. “I want a good look at it.”

With my anger still churning and his touch sending shivers through me, I gather my concentration. The pull is easier now. Before our eyes, the outline of a dagger appears. It wavers and shimmers, not quite whole, and then I fill it with details, painting in the crimson handle, the grooves on the hilt, the smooth shine of the blade and the blood channel that cuts down its center. Solidifying it. The blade’s edge sharpens to a severe point. I rotate it in midair until the point faces us.

There’s hardly a difference between the illusion and the reality.

I look to my side to see Enzo’s gaze fixated on the false dagger. His heart beats through the fabric of his robes, rhythmic against my skin. “Beautiful,” he murmurs. Somehow, I think I hear two meanings behind the word.

He releases me, then sheathes his daggers with one flourish. The smile is gone. “Enough for today,” he says. He doesn’t bother meeting my gaze, but his voice is different now. Softer. “We’ll continue tomorrow.”