Page 24 of Vicious Kings
"Absolutely," I lie, straightening my spine. "Protective yet inviting. Got it."
Her violet eyes narrow. She knows I'm full of shit, but proving it would require her to admit her teaching methods are about as engaging as watching paint dry. In slow motion. While blindfolded.
"Then perhaps you'd like to demonstrate what you've learned?" She gestures to the pile of nesting materials beside me, silks and velvets and other soft things.
I'm saved from having to pretend I give a shit about pillow placement by a commotion in the hallway. Shouting. The sound of a struggle. And then?—
"Get your fucking hands off me, you pointy-eared bitches!"
My head snaps toward the door so fast I probably give myself whiplash. That's a human voice. Female. And pissed.
The door bursts open, and two guards stumble in, wrestling with a blonde woman who's putting up one hell of a fight. She's maybe five-foot-four, but she's making those six-foot-plus Fae work for it. Her hair is a tangled mess, like she's been running her hands through it, or someone's been trying to grab her by it. But what catches my attention are the tattoos covering her arms. Intricate designs that look almost like runes, dark against pale skin.
Tattoos. On an omega.
That's... not something you see every day.
"Let. Me. Go!" She punctuates each word with an attempt to either kick or bite her captors. When that doesn't work, she hawks back and spits directly in one guard's face.
Holy shit. I think I have a girl crush.
The guard recoils, disgust written across his perfect features as he wipes the spit away. "Vile creature," he mutters.
"Vile?" The blonde laughs, high and sharp. "That's rich coming from someone who probably jerks off to tree bark."
I have to clamp my hand over my mouth to keep from laughing. Madame Loriyne, on the other hand, looks like someone just shit on her favorite rug.
"What," she says, each word dripping with icy disdain, "is the meaning of this interruption?"
The guard who got spit on, still wiping his face with a silk handkerchief, clears his throat. "Our apologies, Madame. Miss Volkova was admitted to the hospital wing last week with a severe illness. She seems to have made a... remarkable recovery."
"Remarkable my ass," the blonde—Volkova—snorts. "I told you fuckers I was fine. But no, you had to keep me locked up for 'observation.'"
"And the moment we released her," the other guard continues, shooting Volkov a look that could freeze hell, "she attempted to escape. Again."
Madame Loriyne sighs, the sound conveying centuries of disappointment. "Of course. Hello again, Anastasia."
Anastasia grins, all teeth and zero warmth. "Miss me, Lori? I know how empty your life must be without me around to fuck up your perfect little omega factory."
"Language," Madame Loriyne says automatically, then seems to notice me for the first time since the interruption. Herlips purse further, which I didn't think was physically possible. "And now you've disrupted Miss Moreau's education."
Anastasia's eyes land on me, and her grin shifts into something more genuine. "Who's the goth chick?"
Goth chick? I look down at my outfit of black pants and a deep purple tunic with silver threading. Compared to the pastels and whites the other omegas apparently prefer, I guess I do look like I'm headed to a funeral. My funeral, specifically, if I have to sit through another lecture on the spiritual significance of thread counts in an omega's nest. Apparently, everything is sacred to the Fae.
"This," Madame Loriyne says, her tone suggesting she'd rather be introducing a particularly virulent strain of plague than endure her presence circumstances, "is Miss Wilhelmina Moreau. Our newest student."
"Billie," I correct automatically. "Just Billie."
"Wilhelmina has shown a remarkable degree of progress over the past two weeks," Madame Loriyne continues as if I hadn't spoken, "despite her... improper origins. She would do well to interact as little as possible with you, Anastasia."
And just like that, I know exactly how I'm spending every spare moment I can steal in this place. If Madame Loriyne doesn't want us talking, that means Anastasia is exactly the kind of person I need to know.
"Improper origins?" Anastasia's eyebrows climb toward her hairline. "Do tell."
"That's quite enough," Madame Loriyne snaps. She turns to the guards, who are still hovering like they expect Anastasia to make another break for it. Which, judging by the way she's eyeing the door, she probably is thinking about. "I'll need to fill out the paperwork for her readmittance. Again." The last word comes out like she's chewing glass. "You two." She points at Anastasia and me. "Behave. I'll return shortly."
She sweeps out of the room, robes billowing dramatically behind her. The guards follow, though one shoots a warning look over his shoulder.
