Page 83 of Spearcrest Knight

Iakov bursts out laughing, startling everyone.

“Fucking hell,” he says in his deep voice, rubbing his hand across his buzzcut. “Zach is turning into you, Sev. Bringing up his girl at every opportunity he can.”

“She’s not my girl,” Sev immediately retorts, glaring at Iakov. “And I didn’t start it—Evan’s been going on about Sophie non-stop for the past five years.”

“Except that at least you’re engaged to your girl,” Luca cackles like the fucking cartoon villain he is. “Evan couldn’t get Sophie if he was the last man on earth and her only chance at survival was to get fucked.”

I glare at him, but bite down on a retort.

In spite of Sophie’s assumption that I would immediately run back to my friends to tell them about my so-called conquest, I’ve not told a single one of them. Not even Zach—not even about the kiss at the party.

Because no matter what Sophie thinks, this isn’t a conquest—awin, as she put it.

And whatever is between us is just between us, and that’s exactly how I want to keep it.

So I keep my mouth shut, and spend the rest of the trip into London listening to others rant about their problems. By the time we get to the club, we’re all a little bit fucked—apart from Luca, but that’s because it’s actually pretty hard to tell the difference between drunk Luca and sober Luca, since he’s a cold-blooded serpent regardless.

We settle in a private booth with a bottle of the most expensive liquor in the house—on the house, of course, courtesy of Luca’s dad.

Sev’s already a mess, his pale cheeks flushed, his black hair falling over his eyes like some anguished prince. He’s gesturing wildly with his glass in his hand, amber liquor splashing over his fingers, forcing us to come up with a plan to make his own fiancée (the fiancée he allegedly hates) jealous.

I’m not sure exactly what his end goal is, or what he’s hoping to achieve, but French logic seems to be quite different to normal person logic, so I don’t question it.

Then, Sev says something that makes me perk up in my seat.

“She doesn’t get to just fucking sweep away my existence. I’m a Young fucking King of Spearcrest—it’s time to remind her she’s nothing more than a subject. She’ll fucking bow down to me even if I have to force her to.”

He might be talking about his little French fiancée, but there’s truth in his words.

Somehow, in the coldness of Sophie’s disdain and in the heat of fucking her, I’ve forgotten who I am. Not some lovesick puppy, not some nobody to be swept aside in favour of some other guy.

I’m Evan Knight—a Young fucking King.

And Sophie Sutton is nothing more than a subject.

Ittakesmeawhole week to finally get her alone again. I’m leaving Mr Houghton’s office after begging him for a deadline extension when I spot her.

My entire body goes into alert, vividly aware, as if a bolt of electricity has just zapped through me. I freeze, watching as she peers through the window into an empty classroom before going in.

I follow her, closing the door quietly behind me, pressing my back to the wooden pane. She’s in her immaculate uniform, her hair loose on her shoulders, brown and glossy as chocolate pudding. She rifles through the bookshelves at the back of the room, gathering an armful of books. Then she turns around and jumps, dropping two books. Her eyes go wide and her cheeks go red so quickly it’s almost endearing enough to pacify me.

Almost.

“You haven’t been coming to our tutoring sessions.”

She frowns. “I thought we had a deal.”

I raise an eyebrow. “Wehada deal. I’ve changed my mind.”

Now the blush darkens. It’s easy to tell the difference between Sophie’s blush of embarrassment and her blush of anger, because her blush of anger is redder, and her eyes have a fierce spark in them that make her look a bit feral, and her hands clench into fists.

“You don’t get to just change your mind.”

“I geteverythingI want.”

It’s the truth.

Almost.

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