Bet he’s worse.
“Do I …” I start and then my throat gets so dry that I have to pause and swallow before continuing. “I mean, should I call you prince?” I ask, and Windsor pauses for a moment before chuckling, this happy little sound that’s pretty much the antithesis of all the other guys at this school—even Zayd. It’s pretty refreshing actually.
“You know who I am? That’s bloody fantastic. But prince? God no. Call me Windsor. Or Wind. Or even Windy, but preferably not if you’re interested in dating me as that’s what my grandmother calls me.” He pauses and flashes another grin, whistling as we make our way through the courtyard. I’m not quite sure how to respond to that, so I say nothing. After a minute, Windsor glances down at me with a slight frown and a single cocked brow. “You don’t then, I take it?”
“Don’t what?” I ask and he laughs at me again, but not like he’s teasing, more like he finds me amusing.
“Don’t want to date me?” he clarifies, and my flush intensifies. I look straight ahead, down the corridor toward the stained glass doors.
“I’m not about dating anyone at this moment,” I say, and the words come out so cryptic and full of meaning that both of Windsor’s brows go up this time. Crap. He looks intrigued now, and I don’t particularly want to be intriguing to anyone, not even to a gloriously handsome prince.
“Shame,” Windsor says, but at least he says it with a smile.
We push through the doors to the chapel building … and come to a grinding halt.
The Bluebloods are standing just inside the door, with Tristan and Harper at the front, Zayd, Becky, Creed, and the new girl, Ileana, just behind them. The rest of the Inner Circle is fanned out behind them. When Tristan sees me with Windsor, something dark lights up his eyes, and his frown pulls down the edges of his mouth.
“Are you Windsor York?” Ileana Taittinger asks, twisting her dark hair around a finger. The way she looks at the prince is terrifying, like she very well might eat him for breakfast. Her uniform top is unbuttoned, all the way to the scalloped black edges of her lacy bra. I glance at Windsor, expecting his eyes to drop right to her cleavage. Instead, he focuses on Tristan and smiles brightly.
“Windsor York, at your service. Please, call me Wind. And you are?” He tugs me forward with his hold on my arm, bringing me in close proximity to the Bluebloods. The way Becky glares at me, I can almost feel her hatred burning holes in my skin. Her hair is pulled up into a bun, and hair-sprayed to high hell, but there’s no missing the giant chunk I cut off, not today. A smirk teases the edges of my mouth, and she notices.
“Have you introduced yourself to the prince properly yet,” she schmoozes, miming a blow job with her hand, her tongue poking at the inside of her cheek.
“Well, I haven’t asked him yet if he wants a blow job, but he already seems more interested in me than Zayd was in you. Once this is over, let’s go back to my room and I’ll suck you off,” I coo, imitating her nasally voice. “I can say with all honesty: I’ve never been brushed off quite so thoroughly as you.”
“I’m going to fucking kill you!” Becky screams, launching herself forward. Zayd grabs her around the waist and hauls her back. I hate that watching him touch her upsets me so much. His green eyes meet mine, and he grits his teeth as he yanks her back in line. “As soon as I found out that Becky had hit you, I haven't touched her. I just couldn't.” Zayd’s words sound loudly inside my head, and I smile. It’s not a nice smile either.
“Bloody hell, you Americans are crazy. We’ve just met and you want to kill me?” Windsor asks, cocking his head to one side. He reaches up and adjusts his tie with his left hand, one single brow raised in question. Becky is panting now, and she shakes Zayd off to turn and glare at me again.
“Not you, the little whore next to you. That’s our resident Working Girl. If you want a cheap fuck, you can visit her in the Brothel. Otherwise, you’re better off sticking with us.” Becky sneers at me, the expression twisting her pretty face into something horrible. I raise my chin and then flip her off. There’s just something wrong with the chemistry between us; it doesn’t work. “You bitch.” She sneers and tries to come at me again, but Tristan holds out a hand and the Bluebloods freeze. Well, everyone but Creed. He leans back and rolls his eyes before yawning.
Tristan, though, is most definitely their king.
