Page 4 of The Prince from a Cruel Summer
The boys are expected to wear nothing but black shorts, while we girls have been given flimsy summer dresses to cover our black, form-fitting, waterproof leotards—I think they call them swimsuits. The Spring Fae decorated their dresses with bright flowers, but that’s a mistake.
Who cares about looks?These trials will certainly include a few sentient beasts, and I’d rather not give anything with fangs or claws a better chance to spot me.
I play nervously with the straps of my leotard, ready to melt into the grass and hide within the crust of the earth. I don’t know how to swim—not properly. If the challenge calls for me to plunge into anything more than a shallow pool, I’m screwed.
“Let me through.” A boastful voice erupts from the crowd.
My stomach cramps as Ezekiel Nocturna, the Shadow Prince, elbows his way through the sea of supportive coaches. I’ve been glaring at pictures of him for the last two days. My father was all too happy to present the prize he’d won for me, my royal fiancé.
Fae royals usually never marry so far down the totem pole, but this one was desperate enough to choose me, being in dire need of raw magic to boost his claim to the Shadow throne.
I’m an anomaly in my family. The first Snow with enough power to draw the king’s attention and escape the mediocre fate I was born to, or so my father has been telling me since I froze the entire kitchen as a Faen because I didn’t want to eat ragout.
A hurried betrothal to Ezekiel allowed me the perk of vying for a spot in this elite school, but I’m an outsider. If I make it through the admission trials, I’ll receive a first-grade education. I’ll be initiated into age-old secrets about our realm’s magic and form connections with people that would not otherwise have deigned to glance upon me, given my lineage, and that includes my brand-new fiancé.
The living shadows flickering along the prince’s smooth, tanned skin create an aura of black fire around his tall frame. Men from the Shadowlands are known for their rugged sex appeal, and Ezekiel is no exception.
He’s got his father’s strong jaw and his mother’s silver eyes. I’d be tempted to grin timidly at him if it weren’t for his sly, superior smile—the hallmark of a true Fae prince. His no-frills uniform bridges the class divide between us, but he looks like a man who’s never worn anything but the finest silk.
He crosses his arms over his chest and eyes me up and down. “There you are, moth. You’re not so bad to look at, at least.”
Mothis used when referring to a common Winter Fae without any noble blood, as we come from the land of death. It’s not considered derogatory, but it chafes my vanity all the same. Ever since I hit puberty, I’ve had a sixth sense to gauge a man’s intentions. Call it a gut feeling or feminine intuition, but I can always tell when a man only pays me a compliment—even a backhanded one—to manipulate me, and Ezekiel checks all the red boxes on that front. Hells, he’s not subtle or witty about it.
He purses his lips. “But I don’t believe you’ve got what it takes to pass the admission trials. You’re going to fail—or die.” He shrugs as though his words are merely simple truths. “And I won’t cry over it when it happens.”
“I guess you’ll know soon enough,” I deadpan, my nerves stripping me of my usual carefulness when speaking to high-born jackasses.
“Don’t get too attached to this face,” he says, pointing at it with his index finger. “I don’t care what my father said. If you don’t get into the academy, I’llnevermarry you.”
“No one is expected to marry a corpse, right?” I crack.
“Corpses take care of themselves. I can’t marry a loser. Good luck, moth, but I don’t expect to see you on the other side.” He leaves with about as much discretion as when he arrived, thundering back to his advisors.
“Wow. He’s an ass,” a man says, inching closer to me. “I heard he’s not the most talented or disciplined pupil. He should worry about his own fate, not yours.”
“You’re right about that.” I spin around to face the newcomer. “Oh?—”
The boy is awfully tall, but his posture lacks confidence, and his long arms hang awkwardly at his sides, as if he just sprouted a few inches and hasn’t yet figured out what to do with his new height. His platinum blonde hair is in disarray, slicing through the dark night, but it’s the wide wings on either side of him that steal my breath. He obviously wasn’t on the lawn when I sized up my competitors earlier, and I glare at his outstretched hand.
“Elio Lightbringer, nice to meet you…” he trails off, waiting for me to introduce myself.
I’ve studied his name, along with the names of every Fae royal. Elio, second-born son of Ethan Lightbringer, the King of Light.
“I’m Beth—I mean Elizabeth Snow.”
A luminous smile stretches his mouth. “Your name is on everyone’s lips tonight.”
My brows furrow. He’s right, of course. “Given your expression, my last-minute invitation must have ruffled quite a few royal feathers.”
“All of them, I’d say.”
I shouldn’t trust any noble Fae, especially friendly, gorgeous princes, but my keen instincts remain subdued and quiet.
I crane my neck around, searching for Elio’s coaches. “Why are you alone?” As a prince, he’s probably been training for this since he came out of his mother’s womb.
“I ordered my coaches to stay away.” He rolls his shoulders back. “It’s nice to meet you, Beth. If it helps, I’m nervous as hell, too. They all expect you to fail, but if I don’t make it through… Let’s just say my father will take it as a personal affront.”
The high-born applicants who wash out are usually relegated to less prestigious positions and never taken seriously as contenders for one of the seven crowns, but it's hardly a harsh fate. If I fail, I'll be trained to become a reaper and lose my only chance at life. That would force my cousins to leave school early, as they would have to work year-round in the mines to keep even a basic, hole-riddled roof over their heads.
