Page 26 of Academy of the Wicked, Year One

The intensity I find there nearly steals my breath.

This is insane.

You don’t even know this man.

Creature.

Prince…

His stare hasn't wavered, hasn't softened. If anything, it's grown sharper, more predatory. The silver in his irises seems to swirl like storm clouds, darkening with barely contained desire.

"Don't tempt me, little intruder,"he growls, the sound resonating through my bones. The burning pulsation in his warning should make me scurry back home to where I came from.

To finally leave, defeated and empty-handed.

Yet…

Instead of retreating, he steps closer.

The movement brings him well into my personal space, our height difference more apparent than ever. Even with my head tilted back, he towers over me.

Like a god who’s descended upon mortal lands and is facing the only one standing in his way…

Our lips are mere inches apart, close enough that I can feel the coolness of his breath against my skin.

"The research in ancient texts clearly states Duskwalkers don't have emotions," I say, aiming for academic detachment but hearing the breathlessness in my own voice. "They don't express feelings."

A huff of dark amusement escapes him.

"Are you suggesting," his voice drops lower, gaining an edge that makes heat pool in my stomach,"that Duskwalkers can't get hard or fuck the seemingly innocent female intruder who dares to taunt them?"

I click my tongue, rolling my eyes even as electricity races down my spine at his words.

Tilting my head further back, I meet his challenge head-on.

"Not my fault I grew up to be an attractive woman who happens to be wearing a t-shirt."

"My t-shirt," he corrects, something possessive entering his tone.

A smirk plays on my lips as I pretend to consider this.

My gaze drifts deliberately back to his mouth while my tongue traces slowly along my bottom lip.

"Hmm, I'm not sure about that." I pause for effect. "White isn't really your complementary color."

His answering grin is dangerous – all predator and promise. We're so close now that I can see flecks of darker blue in his silver eyes, like shadows in ice.

"Then what color would compliment me?"

The tension between us pulls tighter, a bowstring drawn to its limit. I know I'm playing with fire –or whatever the Duskwalker equivalent might be— but I can't seem to stop myself.

"Black," I whisper, watching his pupils dilate further. "Like your damn soul."

His smirk turns haunting, beautiful in its deadliness.

"And yet you, little mouse, won't run away when you're seconds from being trapped."

He's right.

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