Page 9 of Prince of Flowers
He held his hand up and shook his head. Sylvain’s eyes hadn’t met mine since we’d walked into the academy, too busy looking at the courtyard, the trees, the stairs to the upper levels.
“No. I was only wondering. I’m all right. Thank you.”
My eyes widened at the softness of his words, the almost-kindness of them. This wasn’t the brat I met out in the forest. Sylvain seemed so changed, his face suffused with childlike wonder, the pale gold of his eyes tinted blue by the light of the Wispwell. I’d always heard that the Verdance was a magical place, beautiful beyond measure. Could the Wispwood really be so stunning in comparison?
And speaking of stunning, the other students milling about the courtyard seemed to have noticed my handsome companion. They nudged each other as they passed, whispered from behind the fronds of willow trees. Laptops and grimoires alike were temporarily closed, so many fingers used as bookmarks as the curious paused their studies to indulge in some sweet, sweet eye candy.
Yes, I’d said it a hundred times, but it was worth repeating. Sylvain was gorgeous. It was impossible to pretend he wasn’t, standing there with his muscles and his radiant, stupid face. If only everyone knew about his potty mouth.
But about those muscles — I scratched the top of my head, staring at the dark, sleeveless tunic he was suddenly wearing. What in the — where the hell did that thing come from?
“Sylvain,” I hissed. “Am I imagining things, or did you just steal a shirt off someone’s back?”
He locked eyes with me, scowling, never one to pass up a chance for a fight. “Don’t be preposterous. You were mewling on and on about my nudity and human propriety, so here I am, garbed in clothing. I conjured it myself as we were passing from the forest into this — well, wherever this is.”
“The Wispwood,” I corrected. “It’s called the Wispwood. Well, it suits you, I’ll say that much.”
He said nothing, but reached for his chest and scratched, slightly mollified. His tunic rustled. Again. What the hell?
“What is that thing made of, anyway?”
Sylvain smirked. “Leaves, ornately crafted by my hand within the blink of an eye. Fits me like a glove, too, I should say.”
He stretched his arms out and flexed, the already enticing curves of his muscles bulging obscenely. More heads turned, more eyes drawn toward him, and after we’d gone through the trouble of putting up a glamor, too. Well, I wasn’t at all involved in reshaping his ears, but the point stood.
I hunched closer, muttering under my breath.
“You’re drawing a little too much attention to yourself, Sylvain.”
He grunted as he finished his ridiculous flexing routine, offering passersby an occasional smile and a wink. Damn showoff.
“Just a small demonstration, that’s all. I’m confident that they’re as enticed by my clothing as they are my body.”
Gods, this man was full of himself. I couldn’t be bothered rolling my eyes anymore. They were that tired. I folded my arms and shook my head.
“That’s because no one has seen anything quite like what you’re wearing. It’s unique, to say the least.”
An understatement, truthfully, because I didn’t want to give him more reasons to make a spectacle of himself. It was hard to tell from a distance, but the tunic really was made out of dark leaves, overlapping in a pattern that reminded me of scale armor.
The temptation to reach out and examine its texture was strong. Not that it had anything to do with what was under the tunic, mind you. More of a scientific curiosity than anything. The alchemists of the Wispwood had their own methods of turning natural materials into armor and weaponry that was sturdy, flexible, and lightweight.
But none of it hugged the torso quite as scandalously as Sylvain’s combination tunic and breastplate.
“Unique is right,” Sylvain said, running his fingers down the surface of the tunic. “Our warriors wear their own kind of armor, but mine is shaped and dismissed by my own hand as the need arises.”
The leaves rustled as his hand passed, lifting and fluttering as if blown by a sudden breeze. Between the gaps I caught flashes of Sylvain’s skin, the ridges of the muscles in his torso.
Why did this feel so much dirtier than just looking at his bare body? Was it because he was tricking me into staring, giving me no choice but to take in the sight of him? The behavior definitely checked out. We didn’t know very much about the fae, but we certainly knew all about their love of trickery and deception.
I wrenched my gaze away from Sylvain and his body, clearing my throat.
“We generally have no need for armor within the Wispwood itself. If you see anyone wearing it around the academy, it’s more for ceremonial or symbolic purposes. Most of us stick to simple clothing.”
I indicated around the courtyard, though Sylvain could of course see all the variations in Wispwood uniforms for himself. We preferred to stick to a very sensible palette: appropriate colors like moss, leaf, bark, stone, and sky.
Practical clothing, for the most part, like the sleeveless tunic I favored for excursions out into the forests surrounding the academy. Lightweight, and lightly enchanted by its makers with minor protective magics. It even came with a matching cloak. Neat.
I watched in stunned silence as Sylvain reached out, thumbing the material of my tunic, running his fingers from the peak of my shoulder down to my waist. I tried to gasp, but the breath caught in my throat. It felt as if every pair of eyes within the courtyard was watching us.
