Page 23 of Spearcrest Prince

His eyelashes are long as a girl’s, lending a delicateness to his face that balances out the strong shape of his nose, cheekbones and jawline.

“You created this situation,” he answers. “If you don’t like how I deal with these sorts of problems, then don’t cause them.”

After the night at the club, I was so nervous about seeing him again. Nervous it would bring back memories of our first meeting. Worried it would be difficult to separate the Séverin I’m engaged to from the green-eyed stranger with the sensual mouth.

But I needn’t have worried.

Any soft, lustful memory I might have fades in the stark reality of him. Because despite everything that happened between us, Séverin Montcroix is exactly as I expected him to be.

Spoilt, prideful and entitled.

“There was no problem for you to deal with.” I look away from him as I speak, flipping my sketchbook to a new page. “I had a partner for my assignment, which our teachers chose for us. We were both following instructions and preparing our portraits. I’m not quite sure how any of that came across as a problem to you.”

“Oh really?” he sneers. “You’re not sure how flirting openly with some random guy when everybody in Spearcrest knows you’re my fiancée might be a problem?”

“Flirting?” I laugh, more in surprise than anything else. “Please tell me you’re joking.”

“Does it look like I’m laughing?”

I glance up at him. With his frown and his furious green eyes and his lush pout, he looks more like a petulant fairy princeling than ever. I cover my mouth, stifling a snort of laughter.

“Ah, no, you’re right. You don’t look like you’re laughing.”

He points an accusatory finger at me. “You don’t fool me, Anaïs. You know exactly what you’re doing.”

“Well, Idid.” I point at my sketchbook. “Because I’d decided on a composition and angle for my portrait. But since you’ve taken my partner away, I’m back to square one. So no, right now, I don’t know what I’m doing.”

“I’m not talking about the portraits,” he hisses, voice tight with barely repressed frustration. “I’m talking about the flirting.”

“What flirting? The flirting where I was talking aboutmemento moriwith Parker?”

“The flirting where you two were holding hands, giggling and gazing into each other’s eyes like lovesick schoolchildren!”

I wait, hoping Séverin is about to follow this sentence with a splash of laughter. But the laughter never comes. The eyes are still aflame with righteous anger. The proud chin and strong jaw are set with determination.

It’s a shame he’s so annoying because he’d probably be quite fun to draw.

“You’ve really been gone from France too long,” I say, shaking my head. “What are you going to say next? That my wrist bones are too exposed? That I need a chaperone to escort me from one classroom to the next?”

He leans so close I can smell his perfume—an unexpectedly warm, woody fragrance, like expensive leather and sandalwood.

“Look,” he grits out through clenched teeth. “You’re the one that’s moved over here for me,you’re the one who needs my name. The least you can do is not embarrass me by openly flirting with any guy who gives you an ounce of attention.”

I laugh incredulously. “If by talking you mean flirting, then what shall I do? Lock myself away in a tower until you decide you want me?”

He sneers. “You’d be waiting a long time. I don’t want you, and I never will.”

The coat room at the club flashes in my mind, soft and dim and full of pleasure. I raise my eyebrows at him and say nothing.

His eyes narrow. “That’snot going to happen again.”

“Finally,” I say with a small smile. “Something we agree on.”

He glares at me and opens his mouth to say something, but he looks up, and his eyes widen slightly.

“So,” he says briskly, “memento mori—thoughts?”

I follow his gaze in time to see Miss Godrick approaching us. Her teacher planner is in her arms, and there’s a slight frown on her face.

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