Valkyrie's Sacrifice (Academy of Immortals 3)

Every nerve in my body is on heightened alert.

“Cora,” I say quietly. “How long have you been here?”

She doesn’t reply, just continues her descent down my leg. Maybe she doesn’t recognize me dressed up like this.

“Cora, it’s Hildi—from the Academy!”

“Shhh,” she says, mouth hot next to my ear. “The Dark Prince doesn’t like us to talk.”

“But this is okay?” Her sharp nails press into my inner thigh while her tongue licks my earlobe. “Aren’t we here for the Prince?”

“Oh, he’s watching,” Cora says, her voice a purr. “I doubt he’s interested in you.”

“What? Why?” I’m offended for some reason.

“Because there’s nothing he loves more than fear, and you’re not scared at all, are you?”

“No.” I’ve been through worse than this.

“Your friend, on the other hand,” she nods at Elizabeth, “has fear rolling off her in waves. That’s the kind of female he likes to play with.”

“That’s Elizabeth, you dimwit. You know her. We know you.”

But something tells me the twins are lost in a world of their own. Maybe they’re stuck here, too.

“Although,” Clara adds, as though I haven’t spoken, her voice eerily matching her sister’s, “the Prince always has a way of knowing exactly who he wants. Some call it instinct. Others a premonition. Whatever it is, he probably knew who he was going to choose long before any of us entered the room.”

A chill runs down my spine. What if he picks Elizabeth? No, he can’t. Whichever of my Immortals is sitting at that table, they’re mine.

Even in the apocalypse, I’m not about to share.

I dare a peek over at the table. The guests have parted, giving me a direct view of the Prince. Long, red

dish hair hangs over his shoulders and his startling eyes are directed at me. My stomach clenches, twisting with sudden awareness.

It’s not Marshal. No, of course not. Marshal is a knight. There’s only one prince among the immortals and there’s only one man with repressive, centuries-old sex hang-ups that we’d barely begun to challenge back at the Academy.

This is the second circle of Hell. A lustful imprisonment. It all makes sense as I stare into Rupert’s eyes. He’s the Dark Prince, and as he stares at me from across the room, it’s not the look of love. It’s the look of bitter desire, one that’s uncontrollable. One that aims to hurt.

There’s no doubt in my mind he felt me the instant we walked in the room—or even as Clara said, long before that. Rupert and I had an otherworldly connection—not the mating bond—but something else. Something more magical and predictive.

If he’s looking for fear, he won’t get that from me.

I’m not scared of the Dark Prince, but I am afraid that I have no idea how to break him free from this place.

13

Rupert

“Ten thousand men waited at the top of the mountain. Each willing to sacrifice themselves for their kingdom,” the Duke says next to me, his wine glass sloshing as he clumsily sets it on the table. Dark red juice seeps into the tablecloth. “It was certain death, except the Prince knew they were there.”

“How?” Lord Someone asks, gnawing on a slab of meat. He directs his attention to me. “How could you know?”

“Just a gut feeling,” I reply, taking my own sip of wine. “I always follow my gut.”

“Some say he’s got the gift.” The Duke is my cousin and loves to pretend we are closer than we actually are. “That he has some kind of insight into his foe.”

“Is that true?” The Lord asks.