Page 13 of Spearcrest Prince

I start edging towards the door, eager to be rid of this guy’s overly intense presence, when he suddenly stops mid-step. Whipping around to face me, he points an accusatory finger at me.

“This,” he says balefully through gritted teeth, “isnothappening. Do you understand?”

Finally something we can agree on.

“I understand.”

He nods angrily, but when I try to grab the door to leave, he stands in the way, stopping my exit. I look up at him questioningly. He doesn’t seem to want my company any more than I want his, so why won’t he let me leave?

“Right,” he says, his tone suddenly austere. “And—don’t just… you can’t—you’re in a club in London, for fuck’s sake! You can’t just follow random guys into dark, quiet places!”

Now it’s my turn to frown. “You can’t tell me what to do.”

“Actually, I can.” He narrows his eyes and leans into me. “Le nom Séverin Montcroix te dis quelque chose?”

My heart clenches like a fist and drops through my stomach. The mixture of alcohol, shock and embarrassment sends a wave of nausea through me. I clap my hand on my mouth, half out of surprise, half because I’m scared I’m going to throw up.

This time, when I yank on the doorknob, the green-eyed stranger—my fiancé—moves aside. I run out of the room as if the devil himself is after me, and I don’t stop running until I reach the women’s bathroom. I lock myself in, my back against the door, my heart beating madly, my nausea slowly receding. I squeeze my legs together, still wet from earlier, and sink to the marble floor, burying my head in my arms.

“Merde.”

Chapter 6

Le Doigt d’Honneur

Séverin

Outsidetheclub,Londonstretches, dark and gleaming underneath a steady drizzle. Distant street lamps line the edges of the Thames, which undulates like an enormous black snake through the city. A ribbon of smoke draws me into the darkness of an alleyway, and I turn the corner to find Iakov, a cigarette dangling from his lips, frowning at his phone.

He looks up when he hears my footsteps, and slides his phone into his pocket, pulling out a pack of cigarettes to offer me one. It’s a habit I’m always trying to quit but can never kick. Especially not with Iakov’s way of silently offering me a cigarette whenever I look stressed.

“Things didn’t work out with your new girl?” he asks drily.

I throw him a glare. “She’s not my new girl.”

He lifts his eyebrow almost imperceptibly. “That bad, huh?”

“She’s not my type,” I snap, taking a deep drag.

Smoking is thoroughly unpleasant, but just like drinking liquor, it’s the discomfort that’s really the point. I fill my lungs with acrid smoke and blow out a toxic wreath into the dank, dark air.

“Didn’t seem to be a problem when you were eye-fucking her in the club,” Iakov says.

That’s hardly what I was doing, but if I deny it, then Iakov will just think I’m embarrassed—and I’m not embarrassed.Anaïsshould be embarrassed—for being dressed like that in one of London’s most exclusive clubs, for dragging some random guy off the dancefloor without even checking his name first, for trying to fuck a stranger when she knows full well she’sengaged.

“She’s got…” I try to think of an excuse. “Shit attitude.”

“So?” Iakov says, his tone clearly implying that he thinks I have shit attitude too.

I glare at him. “So—I have standards, okay?”

Iakov scrapes a tattooed hand over his head, scratching his skull through his buzz cut. His knuckles are caked with bruised and crusted cuts. Iakov had a hard time at Spearcrest when he started, but it’s been a long time since anybody in school has dared to lay hands on him. And yet he never seems to be without injuries these days.

I would ask what’s happening, but we all know better by now. Iakov’s life is like the Châteaud’If: impenetrable, impregnable, unfathomable.

“So she rejected you, then?” he asks flatly.

“Don’t be a dick.” I sigh. “Of course she didn’t fucking reject me.”

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