Page 103 of Spearcrest Prince

Séverin, wild-eyed and feral, pinning me down in that forest. Séverin, lustful and languid, his head between my legs. Séverin, furious and anguished, saying “Don’t” when I removed his necklace and ring from around my neck.

I sigh and lie back on the cold tiles with a groan of frustration. This idiot. This stupid, impulsive idiot. If only he’d chosen to be honest—with me and with himself. Things could have been so different.

But while I was busy planning my escape from this disaster of an engagement, Séverin was so focused on his emotions that he never realised he was the one making it into a disaster.

Opening my sketchbook, I hold it up over my head, flipping through the pages. Studies and doodles flutter past, glimpses of Spearcrest, Noël. I pause on a page and lower the sketchbook to peer at the drawing there. Séverin, drawn with a crown and an ermine fur.

Séverin, who calls himself a Young King but can’t so much as control his emotions.

Séverin, prince of beauty and pleasure and delusional.

Séverin, the boy who won’t get out of my head.

Ispendtheweekin limbo, not knowing what to draw, not knowing what to paint.

Since there’s no progress to be made with my art, I give my attention to my other courses, English language and maths. I spend my time in the library, revising or walking through the expansive grounds, hoping something will catch my attention, hoping something will inspire me.

Inspiration doesn’t come.

On Sunday morning, I don’t bother getting out of bed. I lie on my stomach, the blanket over my head, eyes closed, feeling sorry for myself. It’s not something I normally do, but I’m in the mood for angst. I think about the lilacs and mustard fields, the sea, my friends.

My phone rings, startling me. I grope around under my pillow for my phone. My brother’s face appears in its little circle. I swipe my finger across the screen.

My voice comes out as a grunt, muffled by my blankets. “Allo.”

Noël’s laughing voice answers. “Oh, wow, are you sick?”

“I’m sick of this place,” I say sullenly.

“Has something happened?” In the background, I heard the jingling of keys, footsteps, movement. “Are you alright,p’tite étoile?”

“Non. What are you doing?”

“I just got home. I was out eating with friends. Thought I’d check up on you, it’s been a while since we talked.” I hear him put things down, move around. “Why so unhappy? Did something happen?”

Although I desperately want to tell him about it, I realise I have no idea what to say.

“I wouldn’t even know where to start,” I say finally, pushing the blankets off me so my voice is less muffled. “I can’t paint.”

“What are you talking about? Of course you can. Do you remember when you were seven and you painted the goldfish, all warped? I still have that painting.”

“You do?”

“Yea, it’s on my fridge. I’ll send you a picture.”

“That’s cute.”

“I’mcute.” Noël’s voice softens. “So what do you mean, you can’t paint?”

“I mean I can’t paint right now. My head is a mess.”

There’s a minute of silence.

“Is it theRoi Soleil?” Noël asks finally.

“Oui.”

“What’s he done?”

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