Page 118 of The Prince from a Cruel Summer
I help her to her feet and peck her lips. “I love you. Please meet me at the cabin after the match.”
“Love you too, but hurry up, or there won’t be a game to win.”
I reluctantly tear myself away and climb through her window. My heart tightens as I exit the gardens, smoothing down my hair. Out there on the field, I’ll have to slip back into my prince mask and pretend Beth is merely my sister’s best friend. She won’t cheer for me, and I won’t kiss her at the end of the match.
Because, no matter how many mind-blowing orgasms and warm nights we share together, she’s not mine. Not yet. But I swat the unwanted twinge of fear away. I have to give her time to process this, and reassure her at every turn that I’m not going to change my mind.
After a while, she’ll see that breaking off her engagement is the first step to the rest of our lives together. Besides, I can’t complain… sneaking around can be tremendous fun.
“You’re late, boo,” Ezra greets me on the field, his lips pressed into a grim line.
“I know.”
“We almost had to forfeit.” He tosses me a matching white vest, and I slip it over my head before grabbing the ball from the ground.
“I’m here now.”
Sean and the other members of the team glower at me for my tardiness, but I’m too happy to care.
Ezra raises an eyebrow. “Plenty of people noticed Beth’s absence, too. You two will get caught soon if you’re not more careful.”
“Let’s play ball, eh? You can lecture me later.” I tap his breastbone with the ball to nudge him off.
Ezra rolls his eyes. “I reserve the right to say I told you so.”
The match starts, and adrenaline surges through me with the claps and cheers of the villagers and students in the crowd filling the bleachers. Soon, I spot Beth among them, sitting right beside Willow, and I fight the urge to wave at her.
We’re almost at halftime, the darklings trailing behind by three points, when the sky darkens in a very sudden and unexpected manner.
I slow to a jog and angle my gaze upward, but the sun hasn't been obscured by storm clouds. Instead, a thick, shapeless shadow blocks its light. The phenomenon moves at the edges, shimmering like a mirage, and sends a bout of dizziness through my blood.
“Flaming hell, what is that?” Ezra shouts over the gasps and clamor of the other players. “Morheim isn’t supposed to start for another week.”
Morheim, when it arrives, keeps the sun from rising in our sky for up to ten days and allows nightmares to prowl our lands, but it’s never come early before.
Damian freezes, and the ball topples from his hands. “By Morpheus… It’s a flock of crows.”
I squint at the strange shadow once more, and sure enough, as the shifting darkness sharpens into focus, I can make out the shapes of black wings and yellow eyes. Hundreds—no, thousands—of crows form a dense wall of sleek feathers and long beaks, heading straight toward us.
“Under the trees. Now!” Ezra commands.
A chorus of panicked cries rise from the spectators, who quickly abandon the bleachers, rushing for the cover of the trees. The Prince of Light leaves my side, joining the frantic retreat.
I search for Beth in the chaos and make a beeline for her. The ground is overrun with pine needles, and long shadows stretch beneath the trees as thecawsandkraasof the crows grow louder and louder.
Everyone takes refuge under the nearest canopy of trees—everyone but Damian.
The Shadow Lord stands alone in the middle of the field.
“What is he doing?” Zeke grunts, his voice tinged with disbelief.
Willow’s eyes glaze over, and she speaks in the eerie, far-off tone she uses whenever she has a premonition. “Four crows nest on top of the Shadow tree. They’ll be crowned before the next dawn.”
The living cloud of birds picks up speed as they dive, plunging directly at him, but Damian doesn’t raise a hand to protect himself—he doesn’t move an inch, only grinning at the incoming flock.
Under our awestruck stares, the crows plummet to their deaths around him in a terrifying blur, their frail necks snapping from the force of the impact. Despite the violence of the blows, Damian himself only takes one direct hit, a ripple of magic slicing through the air as the very last crow crashes into the side of his head.
Blood drips down the side of his face, and I’m the first to rush to him, slowly processing what just happened. “Blessed Flame. You’re?—”
