The wind had picked up significantly, and Poet struggled to keep the umbrella from flying away as she hurried toward the steps. She was having little success in controlling anything that morning, and the black gamp in her drenched palms was no exception. There wasn’t much she could do now about the fact that she was running late; she knew that Professor Kincaid would likely subject her to ridicule.

I suppose it’s all part of the fun, she thought wryly. Despite her resolve to remain optimistic, she was not feeling overly amused.

It had been quite a rough morning all around: her Uber had gotten hopelessly lost through the construction on the Western Bypass, rerouting them in a way even Poet did not know. For all the years she had already been in this country, she still couldn’t get her mind around the roadways. Her island was so much different than this one.

The bad road planning itself had only been an aftermath to how she had been woken: with Chauncey vomiting all over a Persian rug Poet had inherited from her late Aunt Stella.

The woman must be spinning in her grave right now, she thought. She always hated Chauncey and loved that stupid carpet. That’s probably why he puked on it in the first place.

In a way, having slept in after hitting snooze on her alarm had been a blessing, but having to clean up after the Cocker Spaniel had done nothing except make her waste more time. Poet had found herself flying out the door in a panic.

Now she was so late, she half-considered blowing off her anthropology class altogether and grabbing a coffee in that mess to warm her freezing bones, but she knew it was not going to happen. She enjoyed Professor Kincaid’s lectures far too much to miss a word. Even after she had caught up with his course online, she had seen it wasn’t the same as being actually present, as if the old man’s energy and character made all the difference.

Professor Kincaid was so impassioned about the subject of ancient civilizations, something her other professors lacked, despite their Oxford University credentials. Then again, no one said you had to be interesting to be a scholar.

Poet’s raincoat dripped on the floors as she rushed toward the lecture hall. She only hoped that one day she would not be the same kind of instructor as the others. She strove to be more like Kincaid—except without the excessive and embarrassing tongue-lashings he administered like daily communion.

Her honey-blonde hair was plastered to her head, the umbrella having failed its use miserably in the short jaunt from the parking lot to the Denys Wilkinson Building.

I should not have worn these boots, Poet thought, as if she needed just one more reason to write off the day. The idea of blowing off her lecture appealed to her more and more with every step she took, but she continued to hurry before her desire for caffeine could override her need to learn. Keep going, Poet. You pay good money to attend the world’s best university. The coffee can wait.

“Poet! Hold up a minute!”

Poet turned her head slightly to the side, her blue eyes resting on Nick Taylor as he hurried to catch up to her. Poet didn’t slow her pace.

“Hi!” she said brightly, trying to keep the impatience from her voice. “I’m in a bit of a rush!” It was obvious to anyone with eyes that she was late, but Nick either didn’t care, or he was oblivious to Poet’s quick movements.

“Got class then?” he asked, his thick Cockney accent lacing his words. Poet nodded, offering him a half-smile as she continued to hurry through the halls.

“Professor Kincaid is going to have my head on a platter. This is the second time this week I’ve been late for his class,” she explained. “He likes to make an example out of people like me.”

“He’s a wanker,” Nick volunteered, and Poet chuckled.

“He’s not so bad. At least he cares about what he’s teaching,” she said. “And I like listening to him. You’re not coming today?”

“Nah,” Nick answered. “I prefer my balls intact in the morning. I just got here, too. Maybe I’ll ring you for your notes.”

“If he lets me take any,” Poet chuckled dryly. “Last time someone was late, he refused to let them record a word of his lecture. ‘If I can commit things to memory at my age, so can you!’ he yelled.”

Nick snorted as Poet stopped before her classroom.

“I told you, he’s a total wanker,” he declared. Poet shook her head, trickles of water tickling her neck with the movement.

“He’s still my favorite,” she confessed.

“Meet me at the pub later?” Nick asked hopefully, and she nodded, more to rid herself of him than because she wanted to see him. She had a feeling that he would draw her out for an entire conversation unless she agreed. His unrequited affection for her was sometimes tiresome, but Poet didn’t want to hurt his feelings.

He was a nice guy, after all. Paying him a little bit of attention was not going to kill her. Besides, she would most likely need a drink after today, if her morning so far was any indication of how the rest of her day would turn out.

“Sure,” Poet said. “I have classes until four.”

“Four fifteen,” Nick confirmed. “At the Cloak and Clock.”

Poet didn’t respond, pulling open the door and entering the full lecture room. She cringed as all eyes turned to her, but she shifted her gaze downward and rushed to find a seat.

“Ah, Your Highness! How lovely of you to join us! Can I offer you a cuppa?” Professor Kincaid called sarcastically. The rest of the class tittered. “I am afraid I have sent the cabana boys out for grapes, but they should be back soon to fan you with palm fronds.”

“I’m sorry,” Poet replied quickly. “My dog—”

“Your dog ate your homework?” he interjected, and there was another round of nervous laughter. Poet wished the floor would open beneath her and swallow her whole. “That excuse is so undergraduate, Miss Mueller.”

She lowered her head and sank into her chair, swallowing the embarrassment in her throat.

“As I was saying,” the grey-haired curmudgeon continued, casting Poet a dark look. “In all parts of the world, on every continent, there have been mass similarities, dating back to before Christ. It has puzzled anthropologists and archeologists for centuries, given the seclusion of some sects until recent history. That is where those harebrained, pseudo-science nut jobs begin touting about ancient aliens.”

Poet pulled out her laptop and tried to catch up with the class, her ears honed on what Professor Kincaid was saying.

“This is not news to any of you as graduate students, of course, but I would like your final paper to reflect something about these remarkable findings, however you would like to incorporate them. You know that the final paper will be worth twenty-five percent of your grade.”

There was a low groan among her classmates, but Poet was not concerned. She was looking forward to finally unveiling her research. She had worked hard on her paper.

Professor Kincaid retreated to the podium, his hand on the trigger to the projector, and he began to discuss recent discoveries in China. Poet leaned forward with interest.

Is he going to say what I think he is? she wondered, her heart catching.

One of Poet’s biggest fears was that her discovery was going to be exposed by someone else before she was able to publish her thesis. But when the professor continued to speak, Poet realized that it had nothing to do with her research, and she settled back against the wood chair.

“You’re a glutton for punishment, aren’t you?” Mya Christensen whispered, elbowing Poet in the ribs uncomfortably. “I think you like it when the old man checks you out.”

“No!” Poet denied hotly, a blush coloring her cheeks at the thought of something so vile. She scowled at Mya. “Shut up!”

Her classmate leered at her, winking a dark brown eye at her. “And yet you blush like you secretly hope Old Man Kincaid will bend you down in front of the hall and ride you like a cowboy from the goldrush.”

“Will you please shut your trap? I am trying to hear what he’s saying!” Poet snapped, her face crimson with humiliation.

Of all the seats to take, you had to find one beside Mya. She’s so nasty and mean, Poet thought, furious with herself for not paying closer attention.

Mya was reminiscent of the mean girls often found in high school. She was probably Poet’s penance for never having to deal with women like that when she was younger. She couldn’t escape them her entire life, could she?

“He’s just rambling about the same shite he’s been going on about all semester, anyway,” Mya told her in a bored tone. “You didn’t miss anything. I think he’s forgetting what he’s teaching.”

Poet knew the professor was retiring soon, and she wondered if his advanced age had anything to do with it. From what she remembered, Geoff Kincaid had been a fixture at Oxford since the late sixties. If anyone was due to live in the sun, it was him.

Still, Poet knew she would miss the old man, even though she was scheduled to graduate in May. She looked at him as a mentor, even if he saw her as a perpetually late thorn in his side.

“How is your thesis coming along?” Mya asked, and Poet wished she would stop talking. She didn’t want to draw any more attention to herself than necessary. Moreover, she simply did not like Mya. It was as if the girl had always harbored some secret resentment toward Poet, even since they were undergrads.

Lately, Poet felt as if Mya’s animus toward her was growing, but she had no idea why. Perhaps it was all the stress of midterms coming up to her. It seemed to her that everyone hated her.

Poet nodded, reluctant to talk about her research while also not wanting to be rude to Mya, who was at least acting half-civil in that moment.

My God, this is Mya acting half-civil, Poet thought in disbelief. She really is a bitch, isn’t she?

“When are you going to tell us what you’re working on?” Mya insisted, and Poet bristled.

Because of who Poet’s father was, she wasn’t taken seriously often, but Poet had worked hard over the years to build her reputation as a diligent student, impressing even her most hardened professors.

Professors like Kincaid, for example.

However, her fellow students seemed more taken by her title of princess than by the brain tucked behind her shoulder-length waves of blonde hair and her pert, freckled nose.

“When it’s published,” Poet mumbled. “Like I keep telling you.”

Of course, as soon as she spoke, Professor Kincaid looked at her with scathing rheumy eyes.

“Is it not bad enough that you interrupted my class by being late, Your Highness?” he snarled, curling an already arthritic finger at her in reprimand. “You have to talk, too?”

“You can just call me Poet,” she quipped lightly, even though her face burned with humiliation.

Professor Kincaid’s eyes flashed with fury as the students chortled. “Why do you bother coming to my lectures, Miss Mueller?”

“To learn, sir,” she answered promptly. “You have a lot to teach.”

“And yet you seem to absorb none of it,” he growled, but Poet knew he did not believe that. It was merely his way to assert his authority by embarrassing her in front of the class, and she should have been used to it by now. He was just so good at it, though. “I would like to see you after class, Miss Mueller,” Professor Kincaid continued, his mouth forming a line of contempt.

Poet had to get directly to her political science course across campus, but she wisely bit her tongue. She could afford to be late for that one. Professor Simon was much more forgiving.

“Yes, sir,” she mumbled, sinking back into her chair as the lecture hall erupted into a mocking round of “uh oh.”

She was going to need to do some damage control if she wanted to stay in Kincaid’s good graces. Being late was just about the gravest sin she could have committed against him. Again.

“You’re in trouble,” Mya hissed in a mocking, sing-song voice at her side. “Maybe he’s going to put you over his knee and spank you, princess…”

Poet bolted up and rose from her seat, glancing around the room for another free seat. Listening to Mya was giving her a headache. Ignoring Mya’s taunting look and the professor’s expression of dubiousness, she scooted toward a free seat near the front.

I really should have stayed home today, she thought sullenly, crossing her arms over her chest and shaking her head. The lack of caffeine was affecting her more than she wanted to admit. Her mood was effectively ruined for the day.

There was a gentle tap on her shoulder, and Poet turned back to look at a young man she did not know. That was why the simple connection of his finger to her shoulder shocked her so much, as if an electrical current had bolted through him and into her.

“The good news is, he’s almost done blathering on,” he offered.

Poet could not understand why everyone felt she was available for conversation that morning. She deliberately turned her back, unwilling to engage any further with anyone, even though she remained distinctly aware of the young man’s presence at her back.

Despite the rain, she wished she had thought to bring her sunglasses and block out the furtive looks she was getting from the class. At the same time, she wanted to turn back and stare at the stranger behind her.

Her curiosity got the best of her, and Poet whipped her head back around to better observe his face. For a moment, she was taken aback by his handsomeness—she hadn’t instantly noted it, having wanted him to just leave her alone.

He was unbelievably good-looking: an angular face was encased by a shock of gleaming chestnut hair, falling into a widow’s peak at his forehead. A set of intense blue eyes clashed with hers, and Poet marveled at how similar his were to hers, a light cerulean blue that rivaled the summer skies. His bone structure suggested an aristocratic air, with its firm jawline, high cheekbones, and lips too full to stop staring at. Even though he was sitting, it was easy to see his frame was solid and firm.

“I’m sorry, who are you?” Poet asked. The young man chuckled.

“You don’t know a member of your security team?” he asked pleasantly, his eyes fixed on the professor. Poet felt a wave of shock flood through her.

“What?” she gasped. “What are you doing here?”

“My job,” he replied simply, sitting back.

Poet could not help noticing the way his muscles rippled against the thin material of his cotton shirt. She tried unsuccessfully to turn her head away, marveling at just how ripped he seemed to be, but she reminded herself she was indignant, not aroused.

He would have to be ripped as a member of the King’s Guard, she thought angrily, guiltily shifting her eyes up past his wide chest to meet his gaze in frustration. That is why they hire men like these.

But Poet had to admit, she had never seen a man like that, on the Guard or anywhere else. She certainly didn’t remember him as a part of her team. In any case, he should not be in her classroom.

“Why are you here?” she asked. “We had a deal!”

The young man looked blankly at her.

“Princess?” he began innocently. “We have never spoken, so we couldn’t possibly have a deal.”

Poet groaned, sinking back into her chair. It was useless arguing with hired muscle. He wouldn’t know what was going on.

Never in class! He promised! she thought furiously. The minute she was finished with Professor Kincaid, she was going to deal with her father.

It had been an ongoing battle since she had left the Island of Luxe for school in England. The king had insisted on round-the-clock guards, while Poet had only wanted to live her life like a real woman for once. Since she had no real claim to the throne, her life did not face the dangers some of her brothers did, but that did not ease King Henry’s mind in the least. Poet was his only daughter, and even on the secluded island under independent rule, he knew about the horrors of the world.

There had been a fierce fight about what would transpire once she arrived in England, but they had finally reached a begrudging compromise where the guards could see her outside and nowhere else.

“Papa, I don’t want to see them!” she told King Henry. “I don’t need a constant reminder that I am different. The press has already ensured that.”

“Of course, my love. You won’t even know they are there,” he assured her. And then suddenly, six years later, she was conversing with one of them for the first time.

Poet’s day kept getting worse and worse.

Professor Kincaid dismissed the class, and Poet turned, scowling at the man behind her. To her surprise, he was no longer sitting there.

Maybe he was an agent, she thought, her eyes narrowing as she scanned the emptying hall.

“Miss Mueller,” Professor Kincaid called her, “with me.”

The students began to file out of the room. Poet cast one last look around for the dark-haired man, but he was gone, causing a fission of alarm to slide through her. Before she could entertain the thought a second longer, her professor’s voice rang out.

“Are you hellbent on giving me trouble today, Poet?” Kincaid barked, and Poet leaped to her feet, shuffling down the aisle to follow him.

“No, sir, of course not,” she replied. “I’m sorry about earlier.”

He held up a weathered hand.

“Save it for your peasants,” he sighed. “If you weren’t so damned intelligent, I would have had you thrown from my class at the beginning of the semester. No one wants a princess running amok in their classroom, disrupting the students.”

“I am hardly a princess—” Poet started to say, and Kincaid again raised his hand to silence her.

“I’m not here to discuss the semantics of your royal breeding,” he grunted. “As much as I don’t understand how Luxe managed to sustain itself, that is a matter for another class. Perhaps Economics.”

Poet stared at him inquisitively. “If you’re not going to reprimand me, why did you ask me to stay?”

Professor Kincaid grimaced. “I want you to tell me what I can expect from your thesis. You’ve been keeping it secret, and I want to know why.”

Poet studied his face, wondering if he could be trusted. If she told him, he might think she was insane… but if she showed him her evidence, he would be as tied into it as she was. Still, it was only a matter of time before the truth came out, and it would be good to hear advice from a sound, third party.

“I’m waiting,” Professor Kincaid snapped. “At my age, time is not a luxury I can afford.”

Poet inhaled deeply and looked behind her to see if any students lingered in the room. She was relieved to see they were alone.

“As you know,” she said slowly, “the idea of mythical creatures has existed for thousands of years. Since the dawn of civilization.”

Professor Kincaid’s eyes narrowed.

“Are you doing a thesis on unicorns, Mueller?” he demanded, and Poet laughed nervously.

“In a way,” she admitted. “I believe I have proven the existence of witches, warlocks, and fairies.”

Professor Kincaid snickered, turning his attention back to his papers at the pulpit. “First of all, this has been done to death. Witches, warlocks, sorcerers, fairies—this is all old news. The practice of witchcraft is still alive in the most modern of civilizations. They have been proven to exist. You are recycling an existing thesis, if not six existing papers. I expected more from you, Mueller.”

Poet swallowed and lowered her gaze.

“Shame on you,” he continued, grunting. “Well, shame on me for expecting more from you.”

“My thesis is not about those creatures,” Poet mumbled, and Professor Kincaid looked up at her with myopic eyes.

“Well?” he demanded with annoyance. “Spit it out. What is it?”

Poet inhaled deeply. “I believe I can prove the existence of dragons. Real dragons, not just really big lizards.”

Professor Kincaid seemed to freeze, his expression indecipherable.

“Impossible on an evolutionary scale,” he said after a moment, but his tone indicated that he didn’t entirely believe his own words.

“No,” Poet replied quietly. “It’s not impossible. I have proof, done my research. And not only did they exist thousands of years ago—”

Kincaid’s head suddenly jerked up, and Poet watched his face go pale.

“Don’t finish that sentence,” he rasped, beginning to cough, as if the mere idea was killing him.

But it was too late. He had opened the floodgates, and now that someone else knew, Poet wanted him to know it all.

“—they still exist today,” she finished. “There are dragons among us, and I intend to find one before the semester is through.”