Page 37 of Prince of the Sun

“Studying the morning after a party? You reallyarean overachiever.”

My stomach flips at the sound of his voice.

Keeping my expression perfectly neutral, I look up at Daerios, shading my eyes with the hand holding my pen. “Some of us have to actuallydoour course work if we want to graduate, Your Highness.”

The prince is back in his Imperial Greys, thank God—no tuxedo in sight. Pouting, he lays a hand on his chest. “You wound me. I do occasionally open the books on my syllabi.”

“Occasionally,” I repeat.

“Sure. When the mood strikes me.”

I roll my eyes. “What are you doing here, Daerios?”

“Just checking to make sure you’re alive. You ran off the bus so quickly last night, and I never heard from you afterward.”

“Were you expecting me to?”

“I was expecting a thank-you note, at the very least. Midwestern manners, and all.”

“Right. Well, allow me to amend that: thank you, Your Highness, for bringing me to a creepy estate where I had the distinct honor of watching you nearly beat up another sophomore.”

The elf’s eyes darken. “Agathron deserved it.”

“Maybe,” I say. “Or maybe you default to violence because it’s the only reaction you understand.”

Darkness hardens to anger as Daerios clenches his jaw. “You have no idea what I do or don’t understand.”

“Right,” I say, keeping my voice steady. “Because I’m just astupid human who couldn’t possibly understand the ways of the elves.”

The anger dissolves. Daerios blinks twice. “Is that truly what you think I believe?”

“Of course, it is. It’s what every human thinks. It’s what we’re reminded, day in and day out, from the very moment we’re born.”

“And where does that sense come from?”

“Hm.” I tap my chin twice with my pen. “Gosh. Could it be the hundred years of entitled separatism?” I furrow my brow. “No. It couldn’t possibly be that, could it?”

“The elves’ separatism has nothing to do with the human race’s intelligence, Quinn.”

“Oh, no? Please, then, enlighten me—whatdoesit have to do with?”

“Elves are secretive creatures,” he says. “We tend to keep to ourselves.”

“Nice. Great stock answer. Not like I haven’t heard it a hundred times before.”

“I’m just saying.” He gestures to the stack of books on the table. “You’re a dedicated student. A passionate linguist. You’re curious. Insatiable, really. You speak seven languages, including two born in a realm no human has ever visited. You keep few friends. You never visit home. You are unerringly focused in your search for answers. You’re brilliant, Quinn.” He tilts his head, studying me. “The question is, whatarethose answers you so desperately seek?”

I flush, at once torn between pleasure at his compliment and fear beneath the weight of his gaze, his starlight-silver eyes that seem to pry me apart. To unzip me from forehead to naval, prod at the soft tissue within. I fear, in that moment, that he can see the truth of my desire—bothof my desires, the one for information and the one for something else, a something towhich I cannot yet admit—with nothing but his eyes.

“N-nothing,” I say, strangely breathless. “I’m not looking for anything. I’m just studying.”

He reaches out and grabs a loose red curl. Rubs it between two fingertips. “I don’t believe you.”

My heart picks up speed, pounding so hard I can feel it in my stomach. “Do you ever?”

“No. Not yet.” He tilts his head. “But maybe eventually.”

I have nothing to say to that.