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Hellebore shares an arrogant look with his sister before finally deigning to acknowledge the professor. The way he flicks that bored gaze at him boils my blood. “Thus far, I would say . . . I now understand why Whitehall has beaten Evermore at the Tournament of Cups for the last ten centuries. And counting.”
The professor’s eyebrows gather. “Hmm. A bold assessment after less than a day.”
“Yes, well,” Hellebore tucks a strand of his pale honey hair behind his pointed ear, much to the delight of the closest females, who watch his every move, “if the skill of your Shadows are any indication, I foresee another victory for Whitehall very soon.”
This time, when his gaze drifts my way, there’s no denying it’s on purpose.
Mother. Trucker. I will mess you up. I glare at him until Mack has the sense to pinch my leg, forcing me into reality.
“Summer,” she hisses. “Do you have a death wish?”
Ruby, who’s literally been asleep atop the nest she made inside my backpack, groggily flutters in the air. Her shiny wings are crinkled from napping, and she makes lopsided pirouettes before crash landing on my desk. “What? Who’s dying?”
Mack glares at me. “Summer just murder-eyed the Spring Prince.”
“Murder what?” Ruby mutters before understanding lights up her face. She winks at me. “Oh. I get it.” Wobbling like a drunken hobo, Ruby picks up my pencil and begins to . . . to . . .
“Holy crap, is your sprite humping your pencil?” Mack snorts.
I rip my pencil from Ruby’s dirty little fingers and shove it into the front pocket of my backpack. “Ruby, no! That’s not what I meant and—never mind. Just never do that again.”
A rattling sound draws my attention to my phone vibrating on my desk. Valerian!
I’m so desperate to connect with him that I don’t even check who the text is from until it’s already open.
I gape at the picture, blinking, trying to reconcile my hope and excitement with the gut punch I feel staring at the girl on the screen.
Me. In my underwear and sports bra, no less. Shivering and pissed. This is from . . . today, at breakfast.
Just like I edited the prince’s photo, someone has edited my picture. I don’t recognize the phone number, but it doesn’t take a genius to peg Inara as the one behind the message.
I stare at the words Fae whore scrawled above my head. I stare and stare at them, at my half-naked image, at my eyes—which still have a shred of dignity.
I wonder if they’ll still manage to retain that spark at the end of the school year, or if Inara will have broken me by then.
I’ll never let that happen. Jaw clenched, I delete the photo.
Another text pops up.
Think that’s bad? Just wait, Trailer Trash.
Shoving my phone into my pocket, I glance back at Inara and the others. Hate burns in her eyes as she stares over her books at me. Somehow, if it’s even possible, the incident earlier today made her despise me even more.
Ignore. Ignore. Ignore.
It takes every bit of my dignity and willpower to turn around without giving her the satisfaction of a response. As much as I would love to tell the snowflake psycho exactly where to stuff her phone, my survival instincts have taken over.
And they inform me that provoking Inara now, after the humiliation she suffered earlier, would end in my blood leaving my body by various routes. ng her pencil on her desk, Mack leans over. “That’s his sister, Freesia Narcissus. She’s a first year.”
Mack tilts her MacBook Pro so I can see the screen. She’s pulled up the Whitehall Academy website dedicated to the most powerful Evermore students. The screen is split in half, Hellebore’s insanely photogenic face on one side and his sister’s on the other.
I enlarge Prince Hellebore’s bio and quickly run through his long-ass list of attributes. Top Whitehall student two years running. Champion sprite-ball player. Head of the Seelie Fae for Integration club. Rising star at Narcissus Asset Management, a real estate conglomerate run by his aunt, the Spring Court Queen.
The list of achievements goes on and on until I want to gag.
Geez. Did he write this himself?
“Who the frick is this guy trying to impress?” I whisper, sneaking a look at the teacher. The last thing I need is to be called out by Professor Lambert for talking on the first day.
