Page 37 of Vicious Kings
The rage that's been simmering under my skin since the Unmasking flares hot and bright. I have to clench my fists to keep from punching something, preferably something with the Prince's face on it. I'm honestly shocked Olivia doesn't have his picture hanging on her wall. She seems like the type who'd be hunting him every bit as passionately as I am, albeit for different reasons.
But I need to be smart. Patient. I need to learn the layout of this place, figure out the Prince's schedule, find a weapon that won't immediately give me away. I need to play the part of the grateful omega while planning a murder.
Twelve
BILLIE
Icrack one eye open, immediately regretting consciousness as memories of yesterday flood back. Right. Valemyre University. Surrounded by Fae and their pets. Living with Princess Pink herself.
Speaking of which...
I turn my head to find Olivia's bed empty, the covers pulled so tight you could bounce a fucking coin off them. The anal retentiveness of it makes my eye twitch. Who the hell makes their bed like they're preparing for military inspection at—I squint at the ornate clock on her nightstand—six in the morning?
Then I remember the door slam from last night. She'd come in around midnight, and I swear the entire building shook with the force of her entrance. The way she'd stomped around, muttering under her breath about "incompetent administrators" and "unacceptable circumstances" told me everything I needed to know.
Her transfer request got denied. Unfortunate for the both of us.
I stretch, joints popping in ways that would make Madame Loriyne faint. The bed really is ridiculously comfortable, likesleeping on a cloud. Part of me wants to burrow back under the covers and pretend this whole omega nightmare isn't happening. But that's not going to get me any closer to Prince Corvinus's throat.
Time to face my first day of supernatural finishing school.
I drag myself out of bed, bare feet hitting carpet that's somehow both plush and temperature-regulated. Because of course it is. Can't have the fragile little omegas getting cold feet.
The bathroom is another exercise in excess with its gold fixtures and marble surfaces. I splash cold water on my face, staring at my reflection in the mirror. Same dark hair, same blue eyes, same face that's apparently "pretty enough" according to yesterday's whispers. But something looks different. Off. Am I already becoming soft in this place?
Probably better not to dwell on it.
I brush my teeth with toothpaste that tastes like candy, because regular mint is apparently too pedestrian for Valemyre, and contemplate my wardrobe options. Even though I brought the least absurd offerings from my closet at the Academy, it's still a far cry from any wardrobe I would willingly choose. Flowing skirts, delicate blouses, and dresses.
So many fucking dresses.
No pants. Apparently, that's tantamount to a crime here.
I settle on what passes for business casual here, with a deep purple skirt that at least reaches my knees and a silver blouse that doesn't make me look like I'm auditioning for the role of a Victorian ghost. The fabric is soft as sin. I don't even want to know what kind of sparkly magical worm's ass this shit was spun out of.
My schedule sits on the desk where I dropped it yesterday. The first class is Omega Biology and Wellness.
Because nothing says "good morning" like discussing your reproductive system with a room full of strangers.
I grab the textbooks that materialized in my room yesterday—heavy tomes bound in what looks like leather, because everything here has to be extra—and head for the door. The hallway is already bustling with activity. Omegas float past in various states of elaborate dress, from full ballgowns to what I think is supposed to be casual wear. The stairs are crowded, and I'm halfway down when it happens.
A foot shoots out from nowhere, catching my ankle. The world tilts, textbooks flying as I pitch forward. My hunter training kicks in. Tuck, roll, minimize damage, but the skirt tangles around my legs and I hit the stairs hard. Pain shoots through my shoulder as I tumble down three steps before managing to catch myself on the banister.
"Oh my goodness!" A voice drips false concern like honey laced with arsenic. "I'm so sorry! These stairs are just so treacherous, aren't they?"
I look up to find a brunette in baby blue ruffles standing over me, her smile so fake it could be sold as a knockoff in a back-alley market. Two other omegas flank her, both trying and failing to hide their giggles behind perfectly manicured hands.
"Yeah," I say, gathering my scattered books and dignity. "Especially when someone's foot is in the way."
Her eyes widen in mock offense. "Are you suggesting I did that on purpose? I was simply trying to help steady you. And here I thought hunters were supposed to be graceful."
The word 'hunters' comes out like she's saying 'cockroach.' I bite back the dozen responses that spring to mind, most involving her face and the nearest hard surface, and force myself to stand. Play the game, Anastasia said. Be underestimated.
"My mistake," I say, injecting just enough uncertainty into my voice. "I'm still getting used to all this."
She sniffs, apparently satisfied with my capitulation. "Well, do try to be more careful. We can't have you injuring yourself and bleeding all over these lovely floors."
They sweep past me in a cloud of perfume that gives me a sugar rush, leaving me to limp the rest of the way down the stairs. My shoulder throbs, and I'm pretty sure I've got a spectacular bruise forming on my hip, but nothing's broken. I've survived an army of ghouls. These bitches are nothing.
