I step back?—
And don't get far.
His arm wraps around my waist before I can process the movement, supernatural speed matching mine, strength that suggests he's been holding back becoming suddenly apparent. His grip is iron wrapped in silk—unyielding in its control but not painful, possessive without being cruel. The world tilts as he pulls me down, gravity becoming suggestion rather than law, and then I'm sitting.
On his lap.
The position is intimate in ways that make my breath stutter and my mind go momentarily blank.
I can feel the heat of him through the sheer panels of my dress, the solid muscle of his thighs beneath me, the particular hardness that suggests my proximity affects him as much as his affects me. His arm remains around my waist, keeping me anchored, preventing escape without obviously restraining.
Our faces hover inches apart.
Close enough that I can count the individual lashes framing his impossible eyes, close enough to see the way his pupils dilate in response to my nearness, close enough that every exhale he releases brushes against my lips like a phantom kiss. The intimacy is suffocating and electric, hatred and attraction tangling together until distinguishing between them becomes meaningless exercise.
His scent fills my awareness—something dark and rich and masculine, undertones of frost and midnight flowers that make my vampire senses purr with interest my conscious mind refuses to endorse.
How dare?—
"Prince Koishii Yoshiro."
The introduction cuts through my gathering outrage with formal precision, his voice dropping to registers that vibrate through me in ways I desperately wish they wouldn't.
"As much as I'd love to express the glories of my Kingdom..." He pauses, something flickering behind those shifting eyes that might be genuine emotion—grief perhaps, or the particular weight of loss that never fully heals. "Tragically, it no longer exists."
The statement lands with unexpected weight.
"But I suppose that's what happens when you're centuries old, trapped in wait for your Queen to awaken the very academy destined for her ruling and uprising."
Centuries.
He's been waiting for centuries.
For me.
I arch an eyebrow, refusing to let the revelation shake my composure despite the questions exploding through my mind like fireworks.
"What are you?"
The demand emerges sharp, cutting—a blade more effective than the butter knife I'm still clutching in fingers that have gone white-knuckled.
His smirk returns, defiant and delighted in equal measure.
"The real question, my dearest..." He tosses the inquiry back with casual elegance, turning defense into offense with practiced ease. "Is what are you?"
"I'm a hybrid." The answer comes automatically, words I've repeated countless times since arriving at Wicked Academy. "Obviously. Half vampire, half witch."
Half vampire from my father's bloodline.
Half witch from my mother's magic.
The hybrid nature that has defined my existence, my trials, my place in this realm of supernatural politics and ancient power.
His smile grows.
Slowly, deliberately, until I can see every one of his perfectly aligned teeth gleaming in the library's ambient light. The expression transforms his features from attractive to devastating, from handsome to something that makes my breath catch despite every mental objection I can muster.
"Is that what this realm calls our magic?" His voice drops to registers that vibrate through my bones. "Witchery?"
