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All the classes are like that. Not that I’m complaining. It’s just disconcerting. Like waiting for the punchline to an awful joke I know is coming. If he said cruel things, if he mocked me or abused me, that would almost have been better than this.
When I ask to run to the restroom—thanks, tiny bladder—he gives me a weird look and then explains I never have to ask permission for such things. He carries his own stuff, makes sure I have my own chair in every class, and never, not once, says anything unkind.
The jerk.
When he’s not going out of his way to prove he’s decent, he ignores my presence. As does everyone else. It’s not hard to determine he’s protecting me.
The moment the bell rings and school is over, I go to follow him, expecting to shadow his every move like I did Rhaegar’s. But he stops me, his eyes never truly meeting mine. “Go. You’re free.”
“Forever?” I joke.
“For the rest of the day,” he amends. Is that amusement I see in his eyes?
“Just checking,” I call as I dart down the stairs to the doors.
Two whole hours. That’s how long I have to myself before combat class. Mack and I celebrate by spending the entire one hundred and twenty minutes—not that I’m counting—cramming Cheetos and Sour Patch Kids into our mouths and talking.
Ruby, who’s just awakened from one of her twenty-seven naps she takes a day, grabs a green sour patch before Mack can swat her away.
The topic eventually veers to Rhaegar and the Nocturus. “They say Rhaegar is on probation with the Summer Court. That he might leave school.” Mack frowns. “The whole thing just feels . . . wrong.” allows, his jaw softening. “Summer, if I hadn’t been there—”
“But you were,” I finish. “Because you’re always there. Scowling and looking all hot and pissed.”
A flicker of surprise animates his otherwise livid expression. His lips press together, and then he murmurs, “Hot?”
Shit.
His gaze falls to my mouth, which has parted slightly. I become acutely aware of how near he is to me. Close enough that I could reach out and run my fingertips over the jagged cliffs of his cheeks.
Close enough that I could kiss him—if he wasn’t a Fae and I wasn’t a human and we didn’t despise one another.
He jerks his focus from my lips, almost violently, and schools his face into a disdainful scowl. “You should go inside, Princess. Your body reeks of the pheromone drink.”
His cruel nickname drives the dagger of his loathing even deeper. You don’t call someone who shops at the Salvation Army princess unless you want to wound them deeply.
I’m about to tell him as much when Mack, Evelyn, and Callum come rushing from the front doors, dragging my attention to them.
Evelyn sees me first and shouts, “She’s alive . . . and alone.”
Alone? I glance back, but the prince is gone.
Mack throws her arms around me. “Where did you go? We thought someone took you.”
“I’m . . . someone had the decency to bring me home,” I half explain.
“Someone?” Mack says, reluctantly releasing me. “Who?”
“Just some Fae,” I insist. “Thankfully, he’s immune to my druggy charms.” I can’t help but wonder how much you have to despise someone to not react to a massive dose of pheromones.
“We should go,” Callum insists. He’s posted in front of me, arms crossed over his massive chest, staring down imaginary threats. “Until the drug leaves your system, you’re not safe.”
Callum decides to spend the night outside our room, in case any Fae follow my intoxicating scent here, while Mack gives me a talk about not drinking anything without first knowing what it does.
Then I take the world’s hottest shower, scrubbing hard to try to rinse any residual pheromones from my body, and hop into bed.
Mack gave me a pajama set to wear, but the silk shorts barely cover my butt, the cami ending above my navel. Still, it’s better than sleeping naked, and I sink into my sheets, grateful for a soft bed and roommate who’s legit awesome.
Things could have turned out much worse.
