Page 80 of Vicious Kings
Professor Wyngrave looks decidedly uncomfortable with the direction this class is going in. I think Corvinus has started a mutiny.
"That's nothing for you to worry about," she insists. "Scent matches are remarkably rare, and biological compatibility does not always a perfect match make. Besides, there are downsides to a scent match. Involuntary physical reactions when in close proximity to each other. In some cases, what we call 'scent sickness' when separated for extended periods."
Her eagerness to downplay the students' excitement immediately raises my suspicions. Not that I'm exactly a romantic where alpha-omega compatibility is concerned.
"Scent sickness?" Another omega pipes up, a blonde who's been shooting me death glares since I sat down. "What does that entail?"
"Nausea, disorientation, fatigue, and anxiety. The omega's body essentially goes into withdrawal when separated from a compatible alpha's scent." Professor Wyngrave pauses. "Though this typically only occurs after prolonged exposure and the beginning stages of bond formation. Before a mating mark can be formed."
Corvinus's smile takes on a predatory edge. I can see he's enjoying the art of subtly derailing the class. It's like he's a vampire who feeds on chaos instead of blood.
The lecture continues, each minute more excruciating than the last. Professor Wyngrave deftly steers the topic away from scent matching and discusses heat cycles, nesting instincts, the biological imperative to bond. And through it all, Corvinus sits beside me, asking questions he clearly already knows the answers to, playing the role of fascinated student while all the omegas in the room collectively lose their minds over him.
"Your Highness," a redhead near the middle chimes in, "is it true that royal Fae can sense omega compatibility from greater distances than common Fae?"
"I've heard that," he says smoothly. "Though I can't speak from personal experience. I've never tested the theory."
Liar. I can smell it on him, that subtle shift in his scent that says he's full of shit. But the omegas eat it up anyway, giggling and whispering like he's just revealed some great secret.
Isabella's knuckles are white where she grips her pen. Professor Wyngrave is clearly not enjoying the fact that the topic has shifted back to her least favorite subject.
The class drags on for what feels like seventeen years. By the time Professor Wyngrave finally dismisses us, I'm wound so tight I might actually shatter. I shove my notebook into my bag with more violence than strictly necessary, ready to flee before Corvinus can corner me again.
"Leaving so soon?" His voice stops me halfway to the door.
"I have another class." The lie tastes bitter. "You know, since someone changed my entire schedule without asking."
"I think you meanwehave another class. But about that." He stands, moving to block my exit. "I wanted to apologize."
I blink. "Youwhat?"
"For being so presumptuous." His expression is the picture of contrition, if contrition came wrapped in smug entitlement. "I should have consulted you first before making such sweeping changes."
"You think?"
"Though I must say," he continues, completely ignoring my sarcasm, "watching you break down defensive ward theory yesterday was quite enlightening. You have a natural aptitude for combat magic."
"I was raised to kill Fae. Of course I understand how to break your wards."
"See? Fascinating." He reaches for my bag before I can stop him, slinging it over his own shoulder like it's the most natural thing in the world. "Allow me."
"I can carry my own books."
"I'm sure you can." He starts walking, leaving me no choice but to follow or abandon my belongings. "But what kind of gentleman would I be if I let you?"
"The kind who respects personal boundaries?"
He laughs, the sound drawing stares from every omega we pass in the hallway. They're all watching, whispering, probably already spreading rumors about how the prince is carrying my bag like some kind of lovesick puppy.
Isabella's going to murder me in my sleep.
"You can't keep doing this," I hiss, trying to keep my voice low. "Following me around, showing up in my classes, carrying my shit like we're—like we're?—"
"Like we're what?" He glances at me, those blue eyes dancing with amusement. "Courting? Engaging in the traditional mating rituals of our respective species?"
"We're not doing any of that!"
"Aren't we?" He stops walking, turning to face me fully. "I'm making my interest known. You're playing hard to get. Sounds like the beginnings of a thrilling romance to me."
