Spring (Evermore Academy #2) - Audrey Grey Page 0,18

rumor.”

I arch an eyebrow. “Spill.”

Her eyes light up. She’s definitely going to make me work for it.

“Mack,” I whisper-growl.

Grinning, she jerks her chin toward Hellebore and his sister. “Don’t you wonder why their seats are set away from the others?”

I shrug. “Because they’re too good to sit with the rest of the peasants?”

“Well that. But also, the prince is rumored to have some sort of carnal powers of persuasion.”

“I don’t even know what that means.”

Wagging her chocolate eyebrows, she runs her tongue over her lips, looking more like she’s seizing than trying to be sexy. Lord help her if that’s how she flirts. “Supposedly, with a single touch, he can make you wild with desire. I heard that they only accepted him here after he agreed to wear some spelled jewelry that prevents him from touching a mortal without their permission.”

Only the Fae could turn desire into a weapon.

I peer at the prince’s photo again. If what Mack says is true, humans are even more screwed than I thought. As if the Fae don’t already have an advantage with their flawless looks and cunning nature, now they can use magic to seduce us at will?

In what world is that fair?

A sudden idea has me screenshotting the page. Enlarging the photo capture, I quickly edit it. When I’m done, I flip the masterpiece for Mack’s viewing pleasure.

She claps a hand over her mouth as she takes in the arrows pointing to his piercing blue eyes with the words, shoots laser beams of lust. For his mouth, I’ve written, weapons of mass destruction.

His ears are the best. Small ears=small you know what.

When she gets to the revised achievements section, she doubles over with suppressed laughter.

Self-proclaimed winner of the hottest douche canoe contest.

Lifetime achievements include staring at his reflection the longest, filling out his overly expensive jeans, taking selfies in exotic places, and filming his workouts.

Once voted most in love with himself.

Won the award for best spray tan two years in a row.

Head of many organizations including his own fan club.

“Miss Solstice, Miss Fairchild.” Professor Lambert’s voice drags me from my joke and square into reality. Crap. “Care to share with the class what’s more important than my lesson?”

“No.” Heart smashing itself against my ribs, I shake my head, to the laughter of the room. “I mean . . .” Crapcrapcrap. “If that’s an option?”

In answer, a burst of lilies and copper fills the air as Professor Lambert sends his magic hurtling across the students toward us. I go to slam the laptop shut, but the professor’s magic is too powerful and it whips the MacBook into the air.

Whelp. I’m screwed.

Mack and I watch in horror as the laptop floats toward Lambert and settles on his desk.

Without even looking at the content on the screen, he plugs an adapter into the port, hits a button, and projects Hellebore’s new and improved picture and bio onto the huge white projector screen.

As Prince Hellebore’s giant face comes into focus along with my edits, the classroom erupts in snickers.

Someone kill me.

Embarrassment sizzles across my cheeks. Ugh. I fight the urge to hide my face in my hands. Or worse. Sneak a glance at Hellebore and his sister.

Groaning, Mack ducks low, her face the color of one of Vi’s prize winning tomatoes.

Professor Lambert clicks his tongue. “Ah, I think I understand why you two were laughing.” He sighs, fixing both of us with a stern look. “In my classroom, I expect your full attention. Don’t make me use glamour to get it. Understood?”

Mack and I nod in unison.

“Good.” Relief shoots through me as he shifts his intense focus to Hellebore. Reluctantly, I follow the teacher’s stare.

The Spring Prince is leaned back in his seat, long legs stretched out in front of him, a lazy smirk curving his lips. As if he knows how dang kissable they are, he taps the stylus pencil against his lower lip, ignoring the sudden shift in attention.

Only Hellebore could ignore an entire auditorium full of students laser-focused on him.

He tilts his head to the side as he reads his new biography. Did one side of his lips curl with amusement? Or maybe that’s his murder tell.

Everyone freezes as he chuckles, like his voice alone has the power to paralyze the room. Dropping his stylus onto his desk, he performs a slow clap.

The sound cuts through the auditorium in tandem with my galloping heart. “Whoever wrote this forgot one thing,” he drawls, as if whoever wrote this isn’t right here, twenty feet away.