Page 1 of Spearcrest Prince

Chapter 1

L’Amour

Séverin

Iloveeasily—Ialwayshave.

I loved easily as a child, trusting those around me with wide-eyed innocence. Like my first day of primary school, when everyone was very nice to me, so I brought roses for everyone in the class the following day. Or when I was six and loved my mother so much that I asked her to marry me when I was older, and when she told me she was already married, I burst into tears.

I loved easily as a teenager as well, even when I was told it wasn’t the thing for boys to do. At first, I threw my heart at any girl who captured my attention. Then I threw my heart at the perfect girl—or rather, the girl I thought was perfect for me. Kayana. The girl I thought I would live with happily ever after, like the prince and princess in a fairy tale.

In hindsight, proposing at sixteen could never have ever been anything more than a mistake, but I didn’t realise that back then.

No—it took my heart being torn to shreds to learn from my mistakes. Like any lovesick idiot, I had to be hurt before I learned better.

Before I learned how vile love is, how predatory. The way it attaches itself to a host and infects it from the inside, leeching all life and emotions from it until the host is nothing more than a husk. The way it’s addictive even as it destroys.

And if love is the drug—the poison—then sex is the cure, the crimson antidote.

I’m smarter now than I used to be. I surround myself with girls I can only fuck but never love. Girls who are pretty and polished, the type of girl you see on a magazine cover—almost too perfect to feel real.

The problem with always going for girls your type is that they all start to look the same after a while.

They dress well. They have long, curled hair, manicured nails, ethereally beautiful faces. Not just beautiful but impeccably curated, well put together. I don’t date, but I do take girls out, and if I have a girl on my arm for a party, she has to look the part. The same way I carefully select every item of clothing that goes on my body, every piece of jewellery that complements my outfit—the girl I choose must be the perfect accessory.

But I’m a gentleman. If a girl enters a party on my arm, she will end the night more than satisfied. Just because I’ll never fall in love with them doesn’t mean I can’t treat them like goddesses while they’re in my bed. I love pleasure, and nothing pleases me more than pleasuring women.

After all, there’s a reason I can get any girl I want; my reputation precedes me.

But this is my last year at Spearcrest, and it’s getting increasingly more difficult to keep track of names and faces.

I sit on the steps outside the Old Manor with my friends and a girl at my side. My arm is draped around her shoulders, keeping her warm against the autumnal wind.

Later, I plan to take her somewhere private—one of the many secret hook-up spots around Spearcrest—and sweeten the bitterness of the new academic term with some mutual orgasms.

She’s petite, with long blonde hair in glossy curls. Her eyelashes are long as a doll’s, and her make-up is immaculate. Her nails are perfect, gleaming ovals, the colour of corals. Her skirt is rolled up, a cardigan of fuzzy pink wool replacing her blazer, and a pair of glossy Prada pumps are on her feet.

Her look perfectly complements mine, but for all the croissants in Paris, I can’t remember her name.

Polly? Poppy? She’s British and a Spearcrest student, so I can only assume she’s part of the English upper class or the daughter of a nouveau riche family trying to elevate themselves—a phenomenon I’m far too familiar with as of late. I can only assume she must be named something old-fashioned yet feminine. Elsie, or Harriet, or Maisie.

Does it matter?

I draw her to me and run my hand down one of the delicate golden coils of her hair. Maisie—or whatever her name is—doesn’t care if I remember her name or not. All she cares about is how I’m going to make her feel at some point today and the prestige of being able to tell everyone she fucked a Young King.

Talking of which.

Zachary Blackwood ascends the path up to the Old Manor, his vintage leather satchel slung across his chest, books under his arm. Zachary is the smartest student in the school and the heir to one of the most powerful families in England—and he looks the part. His brown skin is free of flaws, his tight black curls are perfectly coiffed, his shoes polished to a high shine. A whole garden of badges adorns the lapel of his impeccably pressed blazer.

He’s courteous, cultured and quick-witted—

“Well, Sev!” he calls, climbing the flat marble steps in long strides. “What’s this rumour everyone’s talking about? Did you get engaged in the summer and somehow forget to tell us? I wanted to be the first to personally congratulate you on your matrimonial endeavours!”

—and he’s the most arrogant know-it-all I’ve ever met.

The girl next to me, Maybe-Maisie, stiffens under my arm. For fuck’s sake. I have no intention of marrying the girl—but I don’t want to make a fool out of her in public either. A few steps away from me, Evan Knight, the golden boy of Spearcrest, raises his head from where it was lying propped against his backpack, his blond hair catching the sunlight.

“What?” he asks in a tone of consternation. “You gotengaged? Does that mean you’re going to get married?”

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