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She’s frozen, mouth twisted into what could either be shock or rage or something rawer.
What the frick? I’ve never seen her look so . . . unnerved. Her nostrils flare, her dark eyes unblinking, mouth parted slightly as she glares at the stage.
I follow her death stare to the Evermore male ascending the dais, expecting the pageantry I’m used to for high ranking Evermore.
Instead, I’m met with an alarmingly handsome blond male wearing fashionably frayed dark-wash jeans and a salmon-pink shirt that’s just tight enough to flaunt his heavenly abs and muscular chest. His hair is the color of aged honey. Styled to be edgy, the thick strands are cropped short on one side and fall to the tip of his ear on the other.
A male sprite with spiky platinum locks and delicate black wings flits just above him.
It’s rare to see a male sprite at the academy. Because males possess stronger venom, they’re typically used as guardians to royal Evermore babies in the nurseries.
On my shoulder, I feel Ruby sit up and suddenly take interest.
I slide my focus back to the Spring Prince. He’s not bulky like Rhaegar, whose strength is marked by his size, nor does he possess Valerian’s lupine strength.
No, there’s something dangerously magnetic about him, like a filthy rich bad boy who knows his money, power, and charm can buy him almost anything.
His I’m-special-just-because aura is nauseating. Especially as he casually rests his hands in his pockets, looks at the crowd, and curls his lips into a sensual smile.
And, whoa, that grin is like watching a flower bloom. Even the teachers seem to melt a little, male and female.
“Sweet baby Faeries,” Ruby whispers into my ear. “That boy can water my garden any day.”
Before I can help myself, a laugh trickles from my throat.
Prince Hellebore’s blue eyes slide to meet mine. They linger just long enough to ignite my insides before sweeping over the crowd.
“Students of Evermore Academy.” The arrogant, syrupy drawl is exactly what you’d expect from a spoiled Spring Court prince. “Thank you for opening your school to the students of Whitehall. I know, in the past, we’ve been adversaries, but I think we can all agree the darkling infestation is a common enemy.”
Growling, Eclipsa storms off, the violence seething from her willowy figure sending the nearest Evermore careening back, as far away from the enraged assassin as possible.
I watch her rip open a portal and disappear. There’s definitely a story there. Resolved to ask her about it later, I search the crowd for Inara and her deranged crew, but they’re missing.
Maybe the prince killed them after all. A girl can hope.
I take another, harder look at the Spring Court Prince, trying to reconcile the charming, laidback male on the podium with someone who could single-handedly disarm the Six. Full sleeve tats cover both forearms, an intricate pattern of vining flowers that must have taken weeks to create.
On any other male, flowers would look ridiculous, but not on Prince Hellebore. He possesses the natural beauty of the Fae. Large, seductive sky-blue eyes. Sharp, elegant features. Full, entirely too-kissable lips.
Every detail is constructed like plants in a garden to work harmoniously together to . . . what?
Lure people in? Disarm them?
For some reason, I think about Valerian. Whereas the ice prince’s beauty is disconcerting, almost overwhelming, Hellebore’s is soothing, Venus flytrap style.
He reminds me of the tale of the Fae who appears near the Shimmer and lures mortal girls away with his promise of love only to cage them in glass, like butterflies pinned to a board.
“For the most part,” Prince Hellebore continues, “I want to honor your traditions. But, considering the incident with the shadow who turned darkling, I’m implementing a few . . . changes.”
Again, his near-turquoise eyes alight on me, their unnatural brightness unnerving. Is he seriously staring at me again?
The subtle tick of his lips confirms my paranoia that he is, in fact, speaking directly to me. “At Whitehall Academy, shadows are expected to meet the highest of standards. But, more importantly, they are supposed to know their place. What I’ve witnessed implies the opposite. Your shadows are defiant. Untrained. Undisciplined. A few even managed to bypass the rigorous acceptance standards to gain a coveted spot here.”
Whoa. Now there’s no doubt he’s talking about me. His gaze lingers, long enough for whispers to grow and my cheeks to flame with embarrassment.
Mother trucker.
“From this day forward, shadows must earn their spot in a series of trials.”
