Page 43 of Vicious Kings
By the time I escape to my third class, Courtly Etiquette and Protocol, my brain feels like it's been put through a blender set to liquefy.
The instructor, Madame Renardier is human, surprisingly enough, but acts more Fae than the actual Fae. She spends an hour teaching us the "proper" way to curtsy to various ranks of nobility. Apparently, the depth of your curtsy directly correlates to how much ass you're expected to kiss.
"Miss Moreau," she calls out when I execute what I thought was a perfectly acceptable curtsy. "That was adequate for addressing a minor lord, but what if you encounter a prince?"
I'd probably try to stab him, I think, but what comes out is, "I apologize, Madame. Could you demonstrate again?"
She preens like I've just offered her a lifetime supply of boot polish. "Of course, dear. Watch carefully."
She demonstrates a curtsy so deep I'm genuinely concerned she might not be able to get back up. The other omegas watch with rapt attention, like this is the most fascinating thing they've ever seen. I'd rather watch paint dry. Hell, I'd rather watch paint dry while someone reads me the entire Fae tax code.
Lunch is a whole other circle of hell. The cafeteria—oh, sorry, the "Grand Dining Hall"—looks like someone decided to combine Versailles with a Vegas buffet. Crystal chandeliers hang from a ceiling painted with scenes of Fae nobility doing noble things, like standing around looking superior. The food is displayed on platters made of actual fucking gold.
I grab what looks like the least pretentious option, some kind of sandwich that thankfully doesn't glow or change colors, and scan for somewhere to sit. The omega section is clearly marked by the sea of gentle colors and the cloud of perfume. Hard pass.
I spot an empty table in the corner and make a beeline for it, but I'm barely three steps in when a familiar voice stops me.
"Oh look, the hunter's trying to eat with civilized people."
Baby Blue Ruffles and her crew have materialized like a bad rash. They're all holding their lunch trays like weapons, which would be funny if I didn't know they'd absolutely use them as such.
"Just trying to eat, period," I say, attempting to sidestep them.
They move to block me. Of course they do.
"I don't think you understand how things work here," BBR says, her voice dripping with that fake sweetness that makes my teeth hurt. "There's a hierarchy. And you? You're at the bottom."
"Fascinating," I deadpan. "Is there a chart I can reference? Maybe a PowerPoint presentation?"
Her face goes red. "You think you're so clever, don't you? Just because Isabella scared us off earlier doesn't mean?—"
"Ladies." A new voice cuts through the brewing catfight. Male, smooth as aged whiskey, with an undertone that makes every fine hair on my body stand at attention.
We all turn, and I have to physically stop my jaw from dropping.
He's tall, even more so than the average Fae, with black hair that falls into his eyes in a rakish style. But it's his eyes that make my brain short-circuit. Red. Not reddish-brown or amber or any color that eyes should be. Actual fucking red, like someone dipped rubies in blood and decided to use them for irises.
He's beautiful, but not just in the way all Fae are beautiful. There's something terrifying about the perfect symmetry of his face. It's like looking at a perfectly crafted blade and knowing it could slit your throat before you even saw it move.
He's wearing the university uniform, but on him it looks like haute couture. Every line tailored to perfection, every button gleaming like it's been personally polished by angels. Or demons. Jury's still out on which side of that fence he falls on.
"Is there a problem here?" he asks.
"No problem at all, Your Highness," BBR squeaks, and—wait, did she just sayYour Highness?
They scatter before I can process that, leaving me standing there with my sad sandwich and a Your Highness who's looking at me like I'm the most interesting thing he's seen all day.
"You must be the hunter," he says, and his smile is sharp enough to cut skin. "I've heard so much about you."
Fuck. Fuck, fuck, fuck.
But wait… this can't be Corvinus. Everyone says Corvinus has white hair and blue eyes. The classic Seelie color scheme. This guy looks like he crawled out of a nightmare. The kind incubi haunt.
"Caelyx," he says, apparently reading my confusion. "Corvinus's younger brother, in case you were wondering."
Of course he is. Of course the bastard I need to kill has a brother I've somehow never heard of who looks like sex incarnate.
"Charmed," I manage, proud that my voice doesn't crack.
