Page 9 of Prince of the Sun

I’m causing a scene. I know I am. Whispering with the prince in the library is one thing; telling him off in the middle of a crowded hallway is quite another.

Berendir holds up both hands. “Apologies, my lady. Not what I meant. In fact, this is a good cue for me to take my leave.” He bows, grinning up at me through his eyelashes. “Pleasure speaking with you, Quinn Who Belongs to No One.”

He turns and glides down the staircase.

Shit.

I keep my eyes trained on the now-empty second floor landing. I don’t want to look at Daerios. I already know what I’ll find there: red cheeks, flared eyes. Fury capable of conquering an entire planet.

Shit,shit.

“Well, that went well,” says a bemused voice next to me.

To my utter surprise, when I turn to look at Daerios, he isn’t mad. Not even close. In fact, he, too, is watching the empty stairwell. And trying not to laugh.

“What’s so funny?” I demand.

He turns to meet my gaze. I’m struck by just how slowly, howgracefullyhis body moves, like the languid sweep of an eagle’s wing through the sky. I watch his eyes travel down my face, pausing at my lips, taking in the hint of stomach peeking outthe bottom of my shirt. His lips curl with distaste. “I believe that would be you, Quinn.”

God. I know I’m no elf princess, but doesn’t he have the decency to at leastpretendhe isn’t disgusted by me? “Andwhat,” I ask, ignoring the heat burning my cheeks, “is so funny about me?”

He opens his mouth, then pauses, seeming to think better of it.

“Well?”

“Well…” Daerios’s eyes narrow, as if contemplating something. Then, seemingly out of nowhere, his entire face brightens. “Would you go to the Ikaric Ball with me on Saturday?”

“Will I-I—” I’m sputtering. I must have heard him wrong. “Excuseyou?”

“The Ikarith Ball.” His amusement only grows. “Held once a year? During Punch? We have to bring a date.”

“A date.” My voice comes out flat. Disbelieving.

“Yes.”

“And you want to bring me.”

“Yes. This is my favor. I’m calling it in.”

Now it’s my turn to laugh. Once it starts, it’s hard to stop, because the more I think about it—the more I try to picture me arriving on the arm of an elvish prince to a final club date event—the more hysterical the idea becomes.

“Did I say something funny?” Daerios asks.

I gasp for breath. “Oh, man.” I wipe a tear from my eye. “Oh, sweet lord.Did I say something funny, he asks.”

He folds his hands behind his back and waits.

When at last I gather my wits about me, I rise to my full height. “Daerios Ariar,” I say. “Third-Born Prince of the Sun. Why onEarthwould you want a human to be your date to an all-elf social event?”

“It’s not an all-elf event.” He furrows his brow. “And I don’t want ahumanas my date. I want you.”

“Don’t be ridiculous. No elf has ever brought a human to one of these events.”

It’s true. I’ve caught glimpses of various Punch events through the windows of the final clubs, and I’ve only ever seen clusters of tall, willowy bodies through their uneven glass. The men might invite women or they might invite men, but they’re alwayselves. Never humans.

Daerios shrugs. “Well, maybe I want to make a splash.”

“Ah.” Understanding dawns. “There it is. Party Boy Prince wants to piss off Daddy.”