Page 50 of Vicious Kings
At least the whispers have died down to a manageable buzz. No one's tried to trip me on any stairs this morning, which I'm counting as a win. Baby Blue Ruffles, whose actual name I've since discovered is Brittany, and her pastel posse gave me a wide berth at breakfast, though they shot enough venomous looks my way to kill a small army. Isabella must have put the word out that I'm not worth their time. Yet.
The thought should comfort me, but it doesn't. Because eventually, someone's going to figure out that I am, in fact, interested in Prince Corvinus. Just not in the way they think. And when that happens, all bets are off anyway.
I can't stop thinking about yesterday's encounter with Caelyx. The way he'd cornered me against that wall, close enough that I could count his eyelashes if I'd been stupidenough to try. The way his voice dropped when he'd called me dangerous, like it was a compliment instead of an accusation. The way my body responded to his proximity.
Fucking suppressants. They must be messing with my head, making me react to things I have no business reacting to. That's the only explanation for why I can still smell him on my clothes even though I changed this morning. Lightning and dark chocolate wrapped in a package that could make the hunter saints reconsider their vows.
No. Absolutely not. I need to stay as far away from him as possible. He's already suspicious, already poking at the edges of my cover story. One more encounter like yesterday and he'll have me figured out faster than you can say "attempted regicide."
Which is why I'm heading to the registrar's office at the crack of dawn, hoping to catch someone before the bureaucratic nightmare that is Fae administration fully awakens. There has to be a way to change my schedule, to minimize the chances of running into him again. Maybe claim a conflict with my delicate omega sensibilities or whatever bullshit excuse they'll buy.
The office is tucked away in one of the older buildings, made of stone and narrow windows that make it feel more like a fortress than an administrative center. The heavy wooden door creaks when I push it open, revealing a space that looks like it hasn't been updated since the university was founded.
A Fae woman sits behind a massive desk made out of marble, her dark hair twisted into a tight bun. She doesn't look up when I approach, just continues scratching away at some document with a pen that has an actual quill.
"Excuse me," I say, trying to inject the right amount of demure omega uncertainty into my voice. "I'd like to request a schedule change?"
She looks up, and her expression suggests I've just asked her to perform open heart surgery with a spoon. "A schedule change? The semester is well underway."
"I know, but I just arrived yesterday and?—"
"Your classes were assigned based on your placement examination and omega designation requirements." She returns to her writing, clearly considering the conversation over. "Changes are not permitted after the first week of the term."
"ButIhaven't even been here a full week yet," I point out, frustration creeping into my voice despite my best efforts. "Surely there's some flexibility for new students who?—"
"There is not." She doesn't even look up this time. "Your schedule is locked. Any changes would require approval from the department heads, your academic advisor, and the Omega Affairs office. The process takes approximately six to eight weeks."
Six to eight weeks. By then, I'll either have completed my mission or been discovered and executed for treason. Neither scenario requires a schedule change.
"This is ridiculous," I mutter, forgetting to play the grateful omega for a moment. "I'm trying to avoid?—"
"Personal conflicts are not grounds for academic restructuring." She finally looks at me again, and her smile is about as warm as a glacier. "If you're having difficulties with another student, I suggest you speak with your dormitory advisor. Good day."
The dismissal is clear. I want to argue, want to slam my hands on her precious antique desk and explain that I'm trying to avoid a prince who can apparently smell lies and has taken an unhealthy interest in whether I'm here to murder his brother. But that would probably raise more red flags than a royal parade.
"Right. Thanks for nothing," I say under my breath, turning to leave.
"What was that?" Her voice sharpens.
"I said thanks for your time." I force a smile that probably looks more like a grimace and head for the door.
I yank it open with more force than necessary, and slam directly into what feels like a wall of muscle wrapped in expensive fabric.
"Whoa there," a voice says, hands steadying me before I can stumble backward. "Someone's in a hurry."
I look up, ready to apologize or tell whoever it is to watch where they're going, depending on my mood in the next half second, and freeze.
He's tall, maybe six-five, with a body that suggests he could bench press a car without breaking a sweat. Sandy brown hair falls across his forehead in a way that should look messy but instead looks like he has a personal stylist hiding in his pocket. But it's his eyes that make my breath catch. Green. Not the pale, washed-out green of the perfectly manicured lawns and gardens covering the campus, but deep forest green with flecks of gold that catch the light.
There's something familiar about those eyes. It makes my spine prickle, but when I try to place it, that prickle turns to pain.
He's not Fae. I know that immediately. He's too solid, too present in a way the Fae never are. They always seem like they're half in this world and half in another, but this guy is all here, taking up space like he has every right to it. The energy rolling off him makes my skin tingle. Shifter, maybe?
And his scent…
Clean rain and earth, like the forest after a storm.
It makes me want to lean in closer, which isexactlywhy I take a step back.
