Page 6 of Wicked Vile King
I take a moment and look at him. What does it matter if I stare? This is just a nightmare after all.
The guy is dressed in black ironed pants and polished combat boots that don't fit with the white button-down shirt tucked in at his belt. The shirt clings to his shoulders and across his chest, hinting at too many muscles for someone my age, and when my gaze finally reaches his face again, he smiles beneath my assessment. His teeth are stark white and in sharp contrast to the Raven-colored hair that tickles his eyes. Eyes that strip the breath from my lungs.
Glacial ice and Blue Morpho butterflies.
Death and life exist together in his irises.
His grin widens, showing his teeth again. They're a little too long, I think, too sharp, too . . . perfect.
A predator's grin.
The thought almost makes me flinch again, but I smother the instinct as he opens the car door. I move to step out before he lifts a hand to either side of the doorjamb, trapping me inside the car. He leans in as he does it, that too-pretty grin never leaving his face, and the aroma of patchouli—earth and wood—and the lingering char of a burned cigarette hit me head-on. He's still smiling as he says the words.
"Darlin', you must be Willow." He retreats a little, offering me his hand. "I'm Saint, Saint Laurier, and let me be the first to welcome you to Chryseum Reformatory Academy."
Southern charm.
Sweet tea and spring showers.
I must be wrong. He doesn't wear a predator's grin, only a gentleman's smile.
Maybe this won't be a nightmare after all.
His kind words and the accent that calls me home channel into the marrow of my bones and remind me of better times, settling the tremor that's started in my fingers.
I accept his offered hand, and his skin is hot against mine as he helps me out of the car. My legs are shaky after sitting for so long, and he doesn't let go, not until I do. I peer up from the cracks spider-webbing through the sidewalk and find him already looking at me.
He's so tall and so close that I have to crane my neck to meet his gaze.
My God, he's pretty—flawless even—and I think I finally understand what Mama meant when she warned me about boys who were too pretty.
Like flies to honey, she'd always say, and I hated it every time because that meant I was the fly, and I didn't want to be the gross fly.
But I think I understand the comparison now.
The guy before me is rangy with long, lean legs, a broad chest that stretches the fabric of his dress shirt, and a narrow waist. He's got a jawline sharp enough to cut glass, a soft full pout, and eyes so blue they pull me under like a siren's song.
He's. . . mesmerizing.
The guy smiles again, and I realize I've been staring for far too long, even for a dream. I blink and pretend the blush that bridges my cheeks isn't roaring brighter with each passing second.
"Don't ‘cha worry about your luggage," he says in that slow southern drawl again. "It'll be delivered to your room."
I nod, his accent quelling my jittery nerves once more.
"Ready?" he asks with a lift of his eyebrows.
No.
"Yes," I say with a nod.
"Good." He starts forward, gesturing with his hand. "Tell me, Willow. What do you know about the Academy?"
I swallow the lump in my throat as we head toward the building, my flats softly announcing each step.
"It's a reformatory school," I answer.
"Mhmm," he agrees, starting up the stone steps to a pair of tall wooden double doors.
