Page 17 of The Prince from a Cruel Summer
She freezes on the step, her blue eyes wide as I bridge the gap between us. “Wonder Boy…” She tucks a long strand of black hair behind her ear. The waves are slick and glossy, no longer matted together with sweat and blood. I barely resist the urge to comb my fingers through them.
I can’t stop grinning, and my chest swells with a rushed breath. It’s silly, but I’m a pack of raw nerves. I have no idea who this girl is, who her parents are, or whether she’s into me. I just know she’s got to be mine, and that’s a complicated emotion.
The rational part of my brain urges caution.
“Congratulations,” I whisper, admiring her pale skin. No one in the Summerlands could get away with a complexion like that, and I slip my fingers under the ribbon strap of her corset to caress her shoulder and trace the flesh of her arm with my thumb.
Her gaze darts to my hand, her lips parting in surprise—or perhaps warning—but she doesn’t speak. Instead, she stares at the place our skin touches.
I offer her my arm. “Let me escort you to the afterparty.”
She doesn’t move to take it, and my brows pull together.
“What’s your name?” she asks quietly.
This is not the happy reunion I’d hoped for. She looks…terrified.
“Hey, is everything alright?” I whisper, unable to understand how the girl who bravely sang my ensnarer vines to sleep and stood tall against a guardian of the labyrinth could be shaking with fear now.
Zeke Nocturna barrels down the stairs and comes to stand beside her, interrupting our conversation. I let my arms fall at my side and offer the prince a nasty scowl as he wraps an arm around her shoulders and pecks her cheek.
“Lizzie, there you are.” He lets his arm hang casually between her breasts, and my Songbird grimaces, ever-so-slightly inching away from him.
I have to sink my nails inside my palms not to push him off her, but he quickly adds, “Keep your hands to yourself, Summers. It’s my fiancée you were touching.”
My frown deepens, and I shake my head. “You’re—” My gaze burns into my temptress, a rebellious flame licking the back of my neck as I try to reign in my emotions. “You said your name was Beth.”
I’m confused as to how she managed to lie to me. All initiates are full-blooded Fae. It’s a consecrated rule.
“My nameisBeth. Elizabeth,” she croaks.
I trace the arch of my brow, feeling as though some grim pixie dragged me to her lair and is using my intestines to replace her harp strings.
Elizabeth as in Liz fucking Snow. Blessed Flame. She’s the moth my father fought so hard to keep out of the academy.
Chapter 6
Shred me to Pieces
SONGBIRD
Wonder Boy smiles at Zeke the way a snow serpent smiles at a wolf when it steps too close to its nest. “I was only introducing myself. To your…fiancée.”
As it turns out, he’s real. And not at all happy with the reveal that I’m engaged. The mere mention of my surname plastered a disgusted grimace on his face, so he’s not into me being a moth, either.
Zeke’s arm tightens around my shoulders, and the overbearing smoky scent of his shadows clogs my nose. I shake off the urge to cough, barely functioning. When I saw Wonder Boy heading toward me earlier, I thought I was hallucinating. He’s even more perfect without the veil of mist blurring the air of the labyrinth—his amber eyes alight with keen, searing intelligence. The very shape of his body taunts me, his fancy clothes doing a poor job of concealing the muscles I fondled earlier. Add to that the all-too-real masculine inflections of his husky voice…
I’m simply dizzy with howrealhe actually is.
Zeke just called him Summers, so he must be another cousin of Willow’s and Sean’s, but Thera Summers has twelve brothers and sisters, which makes her family tree confusing as hell.
I quickly run through the list of possible names, scanning him for clues, but there are simply too many Summer High Lords to keep track of. The Summerlands genealogy is more like a confusing game of tic-tac-toe than a clear family tree.
A few strands of Wonder Boy’s brown hair gleam in the night like bottled embers. His traditional dress shirt is made of fine, crisp white linen and tailored to fit the contours of his body. Embroidered details near the collar showcase a row of creeping ivy—no doubt the Summers' family crest.
The mask of melted glass he was wearing back in the maze is no longer obscuring his face, and I follow the sophisticated arch of his brow, the discrete slant of his nose, and the alluring groove of his chin dimple. And those full lips… Lips that were hungrily devouring mine only an hour ago.
His amber eyes are guarded, the sharp line of his jaw tense enough to appear chiseled from stone. He looks thwarted—betrayed, even.
