Page 22 of The Prince from a Cruel Summer
Zeke runs over to us. “Anyone up for some beach ball? We’ve just lost some players.”
I have to admit, glistening with sweat and wearing only black trunks, he’s objectively attractive.
“I’m game,” Iris purrs, peeling herself from the blanket.
Willow stands and dusts the sand off her legs. “Me, too.”
“And you, moth?” Zeke’s gaze travels up my bare thighs to the hem of my skirt. “I wouldn’t mind seeing you in your bathing suit, running around with that cute ass on display, desperate to catch my balls.”
I glare at him through my eyelashes, eyes half-mast. “Alas… I’m not going anywhere near your balls tonight, Zeke.”
Elio coughs, and Willow snickers, “Oh, she got you there.”
The trio runs off to the ball court, leaving Elio and me behind.
“Wow. That guy will give my brother a run for his money in the womanizing department,” he says.
“Oh, I forgot to mention. I met your brother earlier. Are you two able to wear shirts, or—” I pause mid-sentence. Since I’ve already committed to a stupid, oddly personal question, I decide to own it. “Do the wings get in the way of your clothes at all?”
I examine the wings folded at Elio’s back again, the long feathers at the ends tucked underneath his ass.
Elio cracks up at my fumble, and I take pride in my successful attempt to change his mind from the public humiliation he just suffered. “Yes, we can wear shirts. Our wings can actually return to the ether the way magic armors and weapons can, but my father insisted for me to wear them proudly tonight.” The light in his eyes dims. “He doesn’t want anyone to forget I’m a Prince of Light.”
“Only royals have wings, then?”
Wings are part of the secrets and traditions that don’t make it into wide-spread literature. One of the many mysteries that’ll be unveiled now that I’m here.
“Yes, it’s a gift from our god Helios. He’s a firm believer in hereditary monarchies, and so he marks his possible heirs with wings similar to his own.”
“Are you born with them?”
“We’re borntothem, but we have to practice summoning them. Learning to fly is way harder than learning to swim, I assure you. And when my father decides it’s time to prove your worth, you either fly or crash at the bottom of the Solar Cliffs.”
My jaw hangs open as I gawk at the smooth, white curves of his feathers, itching to reach for them. “By Thanatos! You can actually fly?”
“Did you think they were just ornamental?” Elio teases.
“Well… maybe.” I shake off the urge to berate him further about his wings or more embarrassing still, ask him for a ride. “Is your father very difficult?”
His gaze darts to the ground. “That’s one word for it.”
“Mine is very… politically oriented.”
“Is that code for ambitious and ruthless?”
"Like with Zeke. My father plotted for years for this betrothal. My magic is strong, so if I hadn’t been admitted here, I would’ve had to apply to Tundra University to become a reaper. But Papa wouldn’t hear of that. He might serve the Winter King, but he wants me as far from the Ice City as possible. He wants grandsons and—" I try to find a positive spin to my rather depressing train of thought.
I probably shouldn’t talk about reapers, or the Winter King. Fae from the other kingdoms don’t like to think about death. They don’t like to be reminded that, even though we call ourselves immortals and age incredibly slowly, we all die, too, at some point.
Elio doesn’t seem put out by the turn our conversation has taken. “He wants his name to live on after his death. He’s not the only one.”
“Yes, but royals are supposed to be that way. My father is adamant that his legacy has to amount to something. He’s never content with anything.”
Elio raises a brow. “And you?”
“I’m grateful to be here. It’s a life-altering opportunity.”
I’m fine with Elio thinking that my hopes and dreams are driven by my father. The seed of ambition he planted in me has only recently begun to flourish, and I’m unsure how much of it comes from me or if I’m merely being influenced by what he’s been telling me my whole life.
