In the Arms of the Elite (Rich Boys of Burberry Prep #4) - C.M. Stunich Page 0,59

overhead. He turns us around the floor like, well, a prince would. Even in the floofy pink dress, he knows what he’s doing, and when I close my eyes, he leads as effortless as he breathes.

After a single pass around the room, he hands me over to Zack. He’s not nearly as good of a dancer, but his arms are strong and thick, and when he holds me close, I feel safe. His mask is black, with a hooked beak, lending a very severe expression to that handsome face.

We don’t talk.

I don’t talk with any of the boys.

Instead, I keep switching partners.

Creed is next, and it’s obvious he knows what he’s doing, too. He dances the way he moves, like he’s simply lounging with me in his arms, spinning and twirling us under the broken chandelier with the fake spiderwebs on it.

By the time I get to Zayd, everyone’s watching us.

Even though this is a waltz, he makes it as sensual as that dirty grinding we did at Becky Platter’s party three years ago.

Once I’m all hot and bothered, I trade him out for Tristan. The waltz hits a crescendo as he takes me into the center of the room, holding me close and saying nothing. Our eyes meet, our fingers curl together, and our feet swish across the old worn floors, my white dress billowing around the tight black pants and boots he’s wearing. He has a crown, too, a king’s crown.

The music rises sharply, announcing its finale, and Tristan dips me hard, so low that my short hair nearly touches the floor. And then, he lowers his lips to mine and gives me a fairy-tale kiss with only a hint of darkness edging all that sweet.

After that, Billie Eilish’s you should see me in a crown comes on. It’s so appropriate, I just pause, letting Tristan lift me back up to my feet. We stand there and let everyone in that room get a good, long look at us.

We don’t have any problems from any of the Plebs, not after that.

When I walk into the gym, I find Creed and Windsor fencing.

They’re both soaked in sweat, dressed in that padded white gear, but lacking any helmets. My practical side wars briefly with my fascination, and I end up sitting quietly on a bench in the back, just admiring their forms as they square off.

With the tips of their swords—rapiers? I don’t know, sorry, just not a fencing expert—crossed, the boys stare at each other across the mat. Creed’s blue eyes bore into Windsor’s hazel ones. The prince looks as prepared and on top of things as he always does, but Creed’s shed his sexy sloth persona, dropping into that fierce fighting style of his that I’ve only seen on a few occasions.

“You’re bloody good,” Windsor tells him, a bead of sweat running down the side of his face. His eyes flick briefly over Creed’s shoulder and land on mine before bouncing right back to his opponent’s. “Honestly, your form is better than mine, but when you get mad, you get impulsive.”

“Enough of your bullshit. I’m here to kick your ass, not take lessons from you.”

Windsor shrugs his shoulders.

“Fine by me. It’s your funeral.”

The two boys take up crouched stances, bouncing slightly as they prepare for the round to start. When it does, there’s this flurry of motion from Creed as he throws himself at Windsor, his weapon moving so fast I can hardly see it. Windsor moves nimbly out of his way, and Creed stumbles, recovering just as fast and spinning on a dime.

Their swords clash with the clang of metal, and I realize they’re not really fencing at all.

Fencing is … well, first off, the swords they’re holding are far too big for a true fencing match. That, and they’re definitely both a bit more aggressive and wild with their approach. Steel flies and clatters together, the two boys pushing in with all their strength.

Creed’s teeth are gritted in frustration, and he pushes back with a growl, swinging his weapon around and going in for Windsor’s midsection. The prince sidesteps the move with ease, and then whacks Creed right in the lower back with his sword.

“My friend, you have just suffered a severed spine,” he announces, but Creed’s so worked up and frustrated that he spins around and goes for Windsor again. There’s this wild flurry of dancing blades before Windsor knocks Creed’s aside and puts the tip to his throat. “And now you’ve lost your vocal