Spring

Tapping her pencil on her desk, Mack leans over. “That’s his sister, Freesia Narcissus. She’s a first year.”

Mack tilts her MacBook Pro so I can see the screen. She’s pulled up the Whitehall Academy website dedicated to the most powerful Evermore students. The screen is split in half, Hellebore’s insanely photogenic face on one side and his sister’s on the other.

I enlarge Prince Hellebore’s bio and quickly run through his long-ass list of attributes. Top Whitehall student two years running. Champion sprite-ball player. Head of the Seelie Fae for Integration club. Rising star at Narcissus Asset Management, a real estate conglomerate run by his aunt, the Spring Court Queen.

The list of achievements goes on and on until I want to gag.

Geez. Did he write this himself?

“Who the frick is this guy trying to impress?” I whisper, sneaking a look at the teacher. The last thing I need is to be called out by Professor Lambert for talking on the first day.

Mack’s eyes sparkle as she looks over Hellebore’s bio. “He’s like a Fae male version of me. Overachieving bastard. I hate him.”

I peer at the photo, strangely intrigued. “What are his powers?”

“Beyond what we saw today? I don’t know. Whitehall students don’t have to declare their powers third year like Evermore, so we can only guess. But I heard a rumor.”

I arch an eyebrow. “Spill.”

Her eyes light up. She’s definitely going to make me work for it.

“Mack,” I whisper-growl.

Grinning, she jerks her chin toward Hellebore and his sister. “Don’t you wonder why their seats are set away from the others?”

I shrug. “Because they’re too good to sit with the rest of the peasants?”

“Well that. But also, the prince is rumored to have some sort of carnal powers of persuasion.”

“I don’t even know what that means.”

Wagging her chocolate eyebrows, she runs her tongue over her lips, looking more like she’s seizing than trying to be sexy. Lord help her if that’s how she flirts. “Supposedly, with a single touch, he can make you wild with desire. I heard that they only accepted him here after he agreed to wear some spelled jewelry that prevents him from touching a mortal without their permission.”

Only the Fae could turn desire into a weapon.

I peer at the prince’s photo again. If what Mack says is true, humans are even more screwed than I thought. As if the Fae don’t already have an advantage with their flawless looks and cunning nature, now they can use magic to seduce us at will?

In what world is that fair?

A sudden idea has me screenshotting the page. Enlarging the photo capture, I quickly edit it. When I’m done, I flip the masterpiece for Mack’s viewing pleasure.

She claps a hand over her mouth as she takes in the arrows pointing to his piercing blue eyes with the words, shoots laser beams of lust. For his mouth, I’ve written, weapons of mass destruction.

His ears are the best. Small ears=small you know what.

When she gets to the revised achievements section, she doubles over with suppressed laughter.

Self-proclaimed winner of the hottest douche canoe contest.

Lifetime achievements include staring at his reflection the longest, filling out his overly expensive jeans, taking selfies in exotic places, and filming his workouts.

Once voted most in love with himself.

Won the award for best spray tan two years in a row.

Head of many organizations including his own fan club.

“Miss Solstice, Miss Fairchild.” Professor Lambert’s voice drags me from my joke and square into reality. Crap. “Care to share with the class what’s more important than my lesson?”

“No.” Heart smashing itself against my ribs, I shake my head, to the laughter of the room. “I mean . . .” Crapcrapcrap. “If that’s an option?”

In answer, a burst of lilies and copper fills the air as Professor Lambert sends his magic hurtling across the students toward us. I go to slam the laptop shut, but the professor’s magic is too powerful and it whips the MacBook into the air.

Whelp. I’m screwed.

Mack and I watch in horror as the laptop floats toward Lambert and settles on his desk.

Without even looking at the content on the screen, he plugs an adapter into the port, hits a button, and projects Hellebore’s new and improved picture and bio onto the huge white projector screen.

As Prince Hellebore’s giant face comes into focus along with my edits, the classroom erupts in snickers.

Someone kill me.

Embarrassment sizzles across my cheeks. Ugh. I fight the urge to hide my face in my hands. Or worse. Sneak a glance at Hellebore and his sister.

Groaning, Mack ducks low, her face the color of one of Vi’s prize winning tomatoes.

Professor Lambert clicks his tongue. “Ah, I think I understand why you two were laughing.” He sighs, fixing both of us with a stern look. “In my classroom, I expect your full attention. Don’t make me use glamour to get it. Understood?”

Mack and I nod in unison.

“Good.” Relief shoots through me as he shifts his intense focus to Hellebore. Reluctantly, I follow the teacher’s stare.

The Spring Prince is leaned back in his seat, long legs stretched out in front of him, a lazy smirk curving his lips. As if he knows how dang kissable they are, he taps the stylus pencil against his lower lip, ignoring the sudden shift in attention.

Only Hellebore could ignore an entire auditorium full of students laser-focused on him.

He tilts his head to the side as he reads his new biography. Did one side of his lips curl with amusement? Or maybe that’s his murder tell.

Everyone freezes as he chuckles, like his voice alone has the power to paralyze the room. Dropping his stylus onto his desk, he performs a slow clap.

The sound cuts through the auditorium in tandem with my galloping heart. “Whoever wrote this forgot one thing,” he drawls, as if whoever wrote this isn’t right here, twenty feet away. “I was voted most eligible Evermore bachelor by the New York Fae Times. That should be added. It really was a marvelous accomplishment.”

Is that even true? One look around the room at all the females gazing at the Spring Prince like he’s a glazed donut on cheat day tells me, yes.

It’s absolutely true.

“Ah, I see you have a sense of humor,” Professor Lambert jokes, but he wipes his palms nervously on his slacks.

Is that . . . fear on the professor’s face?

The teacher quickly turns off the screen and shuts Mack’s laptop. Yep, he’s definitely afraid of the prince.

“So, Prince Hellebore,” the teacher continues, a tight smile plastered over his face. “How are you finding our academy thus far?”

Hellebore shares an arrogant look with his sister before finally deigning to acknowledge the professor. The way he flicks that bored gaze at him boils my blood. “Thus far, I would say . . . I now understand why Whitehall has beaten Evermore at the Tournament of Cups for the last ten centuries. And counting.”

The professor’s eyebrows gather. “Hmm. A bold assessment after less than a day.”

“Yes, well,” Hellebore tucks a strand of his pale honey hair behind his pointed ear, much to the delight of the closest females, who watch his every move, “if the skill of your Shadows are any indication, I foresee another victory for Whitehall very soon.”

This time, when his gaze drifts my way, there’s no denying it’s on purpose.

Mother. Trucker. I will mess you up. I glare at him until Mack has the sense to pinch my leg, forcing me into reality.

“Summer,” she hisses. “Do you have a death wish?”

Ruby, who’s literally been asleep atop the nest she made inside my backpack, groggily flutters in the air. Her shiny wings are crinkled from napping, and she makes lopsided pirouettes before crash landing on my desk. “What? Who’s dying?”

Mack glares at me. “Summer just murder-eyed the Spring Prince.”

“Murder what?” Ruby mutters before understanding lights up her face. She winks at me. “Oh. I get it.” Wobbling like a drunken hobo, Ruby picks up my pencil and begins to . . . to . . .

“Holy crap, is your sprite humping your pencil?” Mack snorts.

I rip my pencil from Ruby’s dirty little fingers and shove it into the front pocket of my backpack. “Ruby, no! That’s not what I meant and—never mind. Just never do that again.”

A rattling sound draws my attention to my phone vibrating on my desk. Valerian!

I’m so desperate to connect with him that I don’t even check who the text is from until it’s already open.

I gape at the picture, blinking, trying to reconcile my hope and excitement with the gut punch I feel staring at the girl on the screen.

Me. In my underwear and sports bra, no less. Shivering and pissed. This is from . . . today, at breakfast.

Just like I edited the prince’s photo, someone has edited my picture. I don’t recognize the phone number, but it doesn’t take a genius to peg Inara as the one behind the message.

I stare at the words Fae whore scrawled above my head. I stare and stare at them, at my half-naked image, at my eyes—which still have a shred of dignity.

I wonder if they’ll still manage to retain that spark at the end of the school year, or if Inara will have broken me by then.

I’ll never let that happen. Jaw clenched, I delete the photo.

Another text pops up.

Think that’s bad? Just wait, Trailer Trash.

Shoving my phone into my pocket, I glance back at Inara and the others. Hate burns in her eyes as she stares over her books at me. Somehow, if it’s even possible, the incident earlier today made her despise me even more.

Ignore. Ignore. Ignore.

It takes every bit of my dignity and willpower to turn around without giving her the satisfaction of a response. As much as I would love to tell the snowflake psycho exactly where to stuff her phone, my survival instincts have taken over.

And they inform me that provoking Inara now, after the humiliation she suffered earlier, would end in my blood leaving my body by various routes.