Page 23 of Prince of the Sun

I wait for Daerios down in Quincy Courtyard, unwilling to let him come up and see the disaster of my dorm room. It feels too intimate. Not to mention humiliating, when the prince probably uses magic to keep his own room consistently spotless.

Plus, if I’m to use Daerios for information and, ultimately, betray his entire species, the less personal our relationship feels, the better.

After cycling through nearly every dress in Cara’s closet, we settled not on a dress, but a set: a high-waisted black chiffon skirt with a long-sleeved lace crop top. The bodice is opaque, the sleeves mostly see-through, with black lace floral patterns snaking down my arms in loops and swirls. The neckline plunges down in a deep, ridged V, and opens wide in the back. A sliver of my stomach shows between the skirt and top.

All in all, a distinctly un-elven outfit.

“It’s a ball,” Cara had insisted. “You want to stand out.”

“I’m going to be the only human in a room full of otherworldly, god-like creatures. I’m going to stand out regardless.”

“Well.” She zipped up the side of the skirt. “If you’re already going to make a splash, then let’s soak them clean to their undergarments, right?”

I shook my head. “Who are you and what have you done with my roommate?”

Cara just winked.

Now, I fiddle with the neck of my shirt, trying to calculate the probability of one of my nipples falling out during the evening. The number I land on is disturbingly high.

“Well,” says a deep voice from within the Stone Hall tunnel, “if it isn’t my—”

I turn to face Daerios as he steps out of the shadows of the tunnel and into the lamplight, and the sentence seems to die in his throat.

His eyes widen as he takes in my outfit. They travel down my plunging neckline, pausing at my belly, at the breath of skin exposed to the night air. They roam the swishing fabric of the skirt. Then, slowly, they drag back up to my face. I blink awkwardly, hyper-aware of the thick black liner that Cara penciled around my eyes, the mascara weighing on my lashes. The garnet-red lipstick.

Why, oh why, did I let my roommate dress me? I look nothing like an elf.

But then again, I realize, as Daerios’s lips part ever so slightly—speech dangling, lost in the space between us—neither does he.

Daerios isn’t wearing typical elvish formal wear. I would know. In my years spent obsessing over the elves, I found blogs dedicated to almost every aspect of their culture, includingfashion. The blogs laid out the different aspects of elvish formal wear in detail, including paparazzi shots of elves captured during their limited public appearances during special occasions—such as the king’s annual address.

In general, it seems, the elves shed their standard, no-nonsense tunics and cloaks on special occasions, in favor of long, ornately embroidered vests with leather belts and cream-colored undershirts. They often add a hooded cloak, made of rich fabric in the color of their species—teal for Water Elves, green for Wood Elves, imperial grey for High Elves, and so on. The cloaks usually have hand-carved wood buttons on the lapels and elaborate nature-heavy designs stitched into the hem with gold or silver thread.

I was prepared to see Daerios in an outfit like that. It would be a bit painful, I knew, because he was already so handsome in his everyday clothing that I couldn’t imagine how much better he would look in formal wear. But I was prepared.

What I wasn’t prepared for was a tuxedo.

A verynicetuxedo. One with silk lapels, a black pocket square, a black bow tie, and silver cufflinks. One that fits his body so well it looks like it was tailor-made for him. Because, let’s be honest, it probably was.

My brain short-circuits. Rational thought flees my mind. The only words I can seem to conjure are the same six, playing in my head on an unhelpful loop.

Daerios Ariar is wearing a tuxedo.

I’ve never really seen Daerios’s body before. Elvish cloaks are elegant, sure, but they do nothing to reveal the figure of the person wearing them. They hang loosely from the shoulders, draping all the way to the floor.

A well-fitted suit, on the other hand…

Daerios has broad shoulders. Nottoobroad—elves are generally lithe and graceful, and the prince is no different. Butthere’s a distinct strength to his upper torso, made obvious by the fabric hugging it so well, emphasizing the way it tapers inward to a slimmer waist. And he’s tall.God, he’s tall. His legs are impossibly long. Tonight they end in a pair of shiny black loafers, not boots.

My eyes drag slowly back up to his face. He’s freshly-shaven, his jaw clean and sharp under the courtyard lamplight. From top to bottom, he looks like James fucking Bond.

Neither of us say a word. He stares at me. I stare at him. The stunned silence between us seems to thicken. To fill with something strange and unnamable. I’m suddenly finding it difficult to breathe.

Daerios takes a step forward. When he speaks, his voice is gravelly. “You look…”

“We should go,” I say quickly, cutting him off. I don’t want to hear what he was about to say. I need to keep as much emotional distance between the two of us as possible, which will only be made that much more difficult by pretty words or compliments. “We don’t want to be late.”

The prince’s face shutters. He withdraws a step, one fist squeezing open and shut at his side. A muscle ticks in his jaw, and then he nods. “Of course. Follow me.”